Grief Doesn't End Our Story, It Causes Us to Write a New One!

My life changed on August 4, 2020, when Dianne, my wife of almost 47 years passed away.  

In this one statement, there are many sub-stories. Layered one on top of the other. Each one is just as significant and important to the whole. 

There is the story of trying to find the cause of her pain. We went to a series of doctors until an MRI detected the cause and life changed again.

It became more urgent and darker. Pancreatic cancer was identified as the intruder and the enemy.

Dianne was determined to fight. So, we rallied our supporters. Prayer warriors showed up. Neighbors brought food. Our family circled the wagons of support. 

There is the story of the surgeon who suggested the tumor was inoperable. There is the story of fear, hurt, and complete collapse. 

Then there was the story of finding a specialist who might consider her case. A sense of optimism filled our conversations. Through a very gifted surgeon in Milwaukee, WI, we found hope.

There were conditions. If chemo and radiation could reduce the size of the tumor and prevent the cancer from spreading to other organs, he could remove her pancreas and she would survive.

We returned to Georgia with a renewed sense of purpose. We entered the world of regular chemo treatments, taking home medications, and on-going lab work.

In just a few months the chemo had worked. Tumor markers were down. We were excited about the possibilities.  

We moved to Milwaukee to live in a Residence Inn for more intense radiation and chemo. She completed that round and we returned to Georgia for a time of recovery. After a few weeks of rest, Dianne and I returned to Milwaukee for surgery to take place. Hoping and praying that the cancer and pancreas would be removed.

Lab work was done. And then, the reports. The unbelievable and undeniable news. The cancer had metastasized. We were devastated and destroyed. 

We returned to Georgia with our spirits sagging and tried to navigate the slippery slope of continued chemo to sustain her life for a while. It didn’t work. Nothing did. A few minutes before 10:00 a.m. on August 4, 2020, Dianne drew her last breath.

And then, a different story began. She was in the story, but not physically present. Having been a minister for over 40 years and having led many funeral services, I knew what to expect and I helped that happen. Somber. Professional. Efficient. All rolled into 30 minutes or so. Pandemic. Graveside. Limited numbers. Face masks. These marked the end of our physical relationship. 

Then I went back home. To the house that she had found for us to buy just a few years ago. To the house she turned into a home. Every room and wall was decorated with her loving touch. So many memories. So many stories of family, meals, events, and finally sickness. 

Every breath I took was filled with her presence and yet she was absent. Though she was gone, she was still there. I wanted to tell her again how much I loved her but couldn’t. I yearned to hold her. The love of my life was missing. A part of me disappeared at the same time. 

Then the grief journey started. In losing Dianne, I felt like I had been plopped down in the middle of a wilderness without a map, or GPS, and no one understood what I was experiencing. 

Please know our daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren were amazing. They were there when Dianne passed away. They were there as I stepped into a different world. And they have been there ever sense that day. I am so grateful for them and all that they have done and continue to do. They are amazing. 

Like all stories, I can't list every person who stood with me, helped, and encouraged. Friends and family were so good to me. Even strangers I didn't even know were there through calls, texts, cards, and food.

But in the silent and hidden journey of grief, life continued. I was lonely, confused, hurting, peaceful, loved, supported, and overwhelmed. All at the same time. 

To find help, I began to research grief resources in my area. I read books. I found a person who led me through a seven-session process to write Dianne a letter and I did. It helped some. But it was too soon. Too sudden. Too much. I checked out online support groups, but it seemed awkward to share your pain with people you didn’t even know. 

Somewhere in my search, I found the work of Dr. Alan Wolfelt and his Center for Loss and Life Transition in Ft. Collins, CO. I ordered his Companioning the Bereaved book and devoured it. I knew then that I had found someone who understood the wilderness of grief and could help me find my way through it. (Center for Loss and Life Transition) 

I signed up for several of his workshops. And then a new story began to emerge. This is one of hurting, healing, and hoping again. 

And then it happened. Gathered in a meeting room at the Hilton on West Prospect Road in Ft. Collins, CO, I found my tribe. Or, maybe I should say, they found me. 

These are the people who get it. They understand the pain. They know the new language. They respect you and your journey. They show up without judging, fixing, or telling you what to do. They support you as you grow through your wilderness. 

So, what happened in that meeting room? Dr. Wolfelt modeled what it means to accompany another person in grief. He interacted with respect, compassion, and honesty.

Participants felt safe and understood. We shared our many stories of grief. We cried. We laughed. Strangers became friends through sharing their story. Something occurred that was bigger than all of us.

Life became sacred. All of it. Joy and sadness. Hope and despair. Tears and laughter. All of it at the same time. We learned to hold the tension and live again. 

For me, the seeds of a new vision for my life were planted there. I became deeply aware that everyone carries grief.  From old stories and events from childhood. From recent losses. From things that might have been but were not. From things that were but are now gone. 

In those workshops, I decided that I wanted to be a companion in grief. The one who shows up when times are tough. The one who walks into your pain by invitation only. Who respects your boundaries, creates a safe space, listens deeply, points you toward healthy resources, and offers unconditional support as you grieve in your way and on your timeline. 

Out of this learning experience, I came to believe this truth: Your pain provides the path to healing and hoping again. 

Now, I am working on another truth: You can live with joy and purpose again after loss. It isn't quick. It isn't easy. Healing brings growth. And growth creates hope!

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