‘How are you holding up?': I don't know if I have the words to describe how I am
'How are you holding up?'
Most of the time, this is asked out of genuine concern. Family, friends, church members, hospital staff who have become a sort of family over the years. People who would actually be willing to take the time to listen to the answer, and would care what I have to say.
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Death and grief in the digital age
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Obviously not everyone falls into that category. There are some who do not really want an answer; they are simply asking as a sort of polite obligation, a social custom that must be observed before we can get down to more pressing matters. Something like a handshake.
READ MORE
But for the people who do care, and for those who have shown their love for me in a thousand ways over this past year, I often find myself wishing I could offer more than my usual response.
'I'm okay. Thanks for asking.'
Tracy Keogh passed away last year in August
So why do I not say more? Well, it is partly because I do not want to hear what people might say to me if I do. And I know that is probably unfair to those closest to me, but I was burned early on by 'advice' from individuals who had no experience with grief, yet somehow were experts in the field. Experts who traded mainly in clichés.
'It's going to take time.'
Well, maybe. But that doesn't change how I'm feeling now.
'You need to get out of the house.'
Okay, and then what? Go and do something without my best friend? Try to enjoy myself without her? Do you have any idea what you're saying?
And another word of 'wisdom' I have heard more times than I can remember: 'Grief comes in waves'.
But if they knew anything about grief, they'd know it doesn't just come in waves. It comes in tsunamis. Great, big catastrophic tsunamis that can wipe you out without warning.
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How I coped when grief became my new reality
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]
[
Seán Moncrieff: Funeral sandwiches are part of the Irish grieving process
Opens in new window
]
This was the kind of thing I was hearing in those early days, and it always made me feel like my sorrow was being casually invalidated. And so I shut down completely, isolated myself, hid away for fear I would hear some awful advice. And in fear of how I might respond, if I did.
That's one reason I tend to keep my answers short now. Why I don't say how I really am.
But mostly, it is because I don't know if I can. I don't know if I have the words to describe how I am. Certainly not in conversation, where I struggle to express myself even half-coherently at the best of times. When it comes to talking, some vital transmitters in my brain refuse to show up for work.
Can I do it in writing? I don't know. Not in any way that will do more than scratch the surface. But maybe that's better than nothing.
Tracy spent her last few weeks in Milford hospice, Limerick
So, how am I holding up?
I'm a little better than I was. Keeping busy helps – another of those dreadful clichés, though it turns out there is a grain of truth in it. And there are days when I feel I can see the faintest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.
Though I say that cautiously, because I felt the same thing a few months ago, only to be knocked out all of a sudden by a sucker punch of grief that hit me almost as hard as the initial loss. As I said, it comes in tsunamis.
But some days are okay. And then there are days when the weight of Tracy's absence is crushing. When I come home and she's not here. When I make dinner for one. When she's missing from family occasions. When friends invite me to do things and I realise I'll be going alone. And even when I'm driving and she's not there beside me, telling me what I'm doing wrong.
On those days, I feel utterly lost. And sometimes horribly guilty that I'm going places and doing things without her, making plans that she can't be part of and betraying her, somehow, by continuing to live. This guilt can be unbearable, and it's been the most unexpected of all the turbulent emotions I've experienced.
I still cry most days, often out of the blue. A word can set me off. A picture, a memory, a song she used to love. Carolina in My Mind by
James Taylor
maybe, a song she used to play when she felt homesick.
I still put her picture at her end of the table when I eat. And when I'm finished I wipe her end of the table too, and ask her how in the name of God she managed to make such a mess.
I still sometimes send myself texts from her phone, so that when I pick up my phone later, just for a second my heart will skip when I see her name.
I don't wash her clothes any more, but I did for a while, like I used to do when she wasn't able for it. Just to feel like I was still taking care of her, like maybe when I finished putting the clothes away she'd be waiting in the living room for her cup of tea.
[
Grief constantly takes on different shapes and forms. It is never quite what you expect
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]
But I do still feel the strong urge to take the exit for Milford hospice every day that I'm on the motorway in and out of
Limerick
, just to somehow feel close to her. It is where she spent her last few weeks, where we last had time together, last laughed together, had our last midnight snack, and where we had our last dance. It is where I last held her hand.
It is also where we last talked. This is what I want to do more than anything. Just talk to her. Tell her the news. Hear what she has been up to and hear the latest scandal. Chat about the kids and the grandkids. Hear her laugh when I tell her something funny, or something stupid somebody said. Not being able to talk to her is the hardest thing of all.
In truth, Tracy is the only one I want to talk to about everything that's happened since she died. About the funeral, about how much she was loved, about the oceans of tears that have been shed. About how empty life is without her and how pointless it feels now that she's not here.
I could tell her how I really am. How I'm holding up. But in her absence, at least for now, I'll probably stick to my standard response.
'I'm okay. Thanks for asking.'
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Irish Times
16 hours ago
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‘How are you holding up?': I don't know if I have the words to describe how I am
There is a question I have not been able to properly answer since my wife Tracy passed away last year in August. And it is the one asked most often. 'How are you holding up?' Most of the time, this is asked out of genuine concern. Family, friends, church members, hospital staff who have become a sort of family over the years. People who would actually be willing to take the time to listen to the answer, and would care what I have to say. [ Death and grief in the digital age Opens in new window ] Obviously not everyone falls into that category. There are some who do not really want an answer; they are simply asking as a sort of polite obligation, a social custom that must be observed before we can get down to more pressing matters. Something like a handshake. READ MORE But for the people who do care, and for those who have shown their love for me in a thousand ways over this past year, I often find myself wishing I could offer more than my usual response. 'I'm okay. Thanks for asking.' Tracy Keogh passed away last year in August So why do I not say more? Well, it is partly because I do not want to hear what people might say to me if I do. And I know that is probably unfair to those closest to me, but I was burned early on by 'advice' from individuals who had no experience with grief, yet somehow were experts in the field. Experts who traded mainly in clichés. 'It's going to take time.' Well, maybe. But that doesn't change how I'm feeling now. 'You need to get out of the house.' Okay, and then what? Go and do something without my best friend? Try to enjoy myself without her? Do you have any idea what you're saying? And another word of 'wisdom' I have heard more times than I can remember: 'Grief comes in waves'. But if they knew anything about grief, they'd know it doesn't just come in waves. It comes in tsunamis. Great, big catastrophic tsunamis that can wipe you out without warning. [ How I coped when grief became my new reality Opens in new window ] [ Seán Moncrieff: Funeral sandwiches are part of the Irish grieving process Opens in new window ] This was the kind of thing I was hearing in those early days, and it always made me feel like my sorrow was being casually invalidated. And so I shut down completely, isolated myself, hid away for fear I would hear some awful advice. And in fear of how I might respond, if I did. That's one reason I tend to keep my answers short now. Why I don't say how I really am. But mostly, it is because I don't know if I can. I don't know if I have the words to describe how I am. Certainly not in conversation, where I struggle to express myself even half-coherently at the best of times. When it comes to talking, some vital transmitters in my brain refuse to show up for work. Can I do it in writing? I don't know. Not in any way that will do more than scratch the surface. But maybe that's better than nothing. Tracy spent her last few weeks in Milford hospice, Limerick So, how am I holding up? I'm a little better than I was. Keeping busy helps – another of those dreadful clichés, though it turns out there is a grain of truth in it. And there are days when I feel I can see the faintest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Though I say that cautiously, because I felt the same thing a few months ago, only to be knocked out all of a sudden by a sucker punch of grief that hit me almost as hard as the initial loss. As I said, it comes in tsunamis. But some days are okay. And then there are days when the weight of Tracy's absence is crushing. When I come home and she's not here. When I make dinner for one. When she's missing from family occasions. When friends invite me to do things and I realise I'll be going alone. And even when I'm driving and she's not there beside me, telling me what I'm doing wrong. On those days, I feel utterly lost. And sometimes horribly guilty that I'm going places and doing things without her, making plans that she can't be part of and betraying her, somehow, by continuing to live. This guilt can be unbearable, and it's been the most unexpected of all the turbulent emotions I've experienced. I still cry most days, often out of the blue. A word can set me off. A picture, a memory, a song she used to love. Carolina in My Mind by James Taylor maybe, a song she used to play when she felt homesick. I still put her picture at her end of the table when I eat. And when I'm finished I wipe her end of the table too, and ask her how in the name of God she managed to make such a mess. I still sometimes send myself texts from her phone, so that when I pick up my phone later, just for a second my heart will skip when I see her name. I don't wash her clothes any more, but I did for a while, like I used to do when she wasn't able for it. Just to feel like I was still taking care of her, like maybe when I finished putting the clothes away she'd be waiting in the living room for her cup of tea. [ Grief constantly takes on different shapes and forms. It is never quite what you expect Opens in new window ] But I do still feel the strong urge to take the exit for Milford hospice every day that I'm on the motorway in and out of Limerick , just to somehow feel close to her. It is where she spent her last few weeks, where we last had time together, last laughed together, had our last midnight snack, and where we had our last dance. It is where I last held her hand. It is also where we last talked. This is what I want to do more than anything. Just talk to her. Tell her the news. Hear what she has been up to and hear the latest scandal. Chat about the kids and the grandkids. Hear her laugh when I tell her something funny, or something stupid somebody said. Not being able to talk to her is the hardest thing of all. In truth, Tracy is the only one I want to talk to about everything that's happened since she died. About the funeral, about how much she was loved, about the oceans of tears that have been shed. About how empty life is without her and how pointless it feels now that she's not here. I could tell her how I really am. How I'm holding up. But in her absence, at least for now, I'll probably stick to my standard response. 'I'm okay. Thanks for asking.'
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As I approach the supposed happiness dip, I want to ask what unhappiness can do. What if women embraced 'unhappiness', not as a personal failing or even a fact of our biology, but as a chance to live more authentically – to reject the roads that promise women so much but sometimes (often) fail to deliver? What if we rewrote the script? Bring it on. Do you think mid-40s is tricky time for women? What can be done to help? Tell us your thoughts using the form below
