The Day My Grief Let Go

After He Said Cancer | A Memoir

The sea was grayish blue with flecks of silver. It was summer in Sweden and the sun would hardly set before it began to rise again resulting in a long twilight in the mornings and evenings. The sea scattered the light in every direction, changing the colors into a soft color palette of blues, grays and greens.

I was sitting on a hotel balcony overlooking an inlet on the Eastern Coast of Sweden near the Baltic Sea. On the other side of the water was a thick forest and a few islands near the shore. In this light, the forest wasn’t green, but a muted bluish gray that almost blended into the sea.

My husband, daughters, and I were on vacation in Sweden and had spent a few days at an amusement park. It was the second week of August and Swedes had already begun returning to their homes and workplaces after their collective summer vacation. The park and hotel were almost empty.

The sea was peaceful and still. A gentle wind caught my attention and I looked more closely at the water for waves. Only shallow ripples were visible near the shore, but farther out the water looked like glass. Birch trees and a few pines dotted the water line on my side of the inlet and their branches moved gently in the breeze.

When I was a young girl, I would look at the Baltic Sea and scan for a periscope that might betray the presence of a Soviet submarine. It was the height of the Cold War and a Soviet submarine had been stranded deep in Swedish waters. The idea of spotting a submarine that had no business along the Swedish coastline had been tantalizing. I couldn’t help myself but continue to look for Russian submarines whenever I looked out onto the Baltic. But not today.

My mind was calm and at peace, just like the sea. I had no invasive thoughts of my husband’s health or anything else. Just an inner calm that felt true and real. I took a deep breath to savor this moment and closed my eyes. I waited until I had fully exhaled and then took another breath.

The pain in my chest was gone, I realized with a start. When did this happen? I thought with such surprise that I stopped breathing altogether. The painful grief inside my chest that I had carried for so long felt as if it would always be there. It would never get better, I had told myself, again and again. Every breath would serve as a reminder of the psychological trauma of my husband’s cancer for the rest of his life – and probably my own, as well.

Yet here I was. Sitting on a hotel balcony and looking out into the Baltic with a calm and peaceful energy that found its way into every part of my body. I took another deep breath to simply confirm that the pain was truly gone. Yes, it was truly gone. I could just enjoy the serene landscape without the pain of unresolved grief and anxiety of the cancer treatment.

The light was changing now. A soft white and tinge of yellow and peach were highlighting the clouds, which in turn was reflecting in the water. Perhaps my grief was changing with the twilight. Becoming softer and more muted.

I imagined how this inlet must have looked an millenium ago during the reign of the Vikings when Longboats would have navigated these waterways. The Viking ships were light and flexible, which had to do with their sturdy frame and light decking. It was said that a good Viking ship could ride across the tops of the waves. In this twilight, the sight of a Viking longboat might have been commonplace. Or else, it might have induced both awe and terror.

Tomorrow was our last day at the amusement park. I suspected that tomorrow would be a repeat of today. The girls had taken advantage of the short lines to ride the rollercoasters over and over, with only a short intermission in between where we would see them laughing hysterically while running to the end of the line to go again.

My husband and I had watched them enjoy themselves, and marveled at how they were growing up. One was in high school and the other would start high school in a year. We had much to be grateful for.

Sleep was overtaking me, and it was hard to keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the seascape. A few moments longer. I wanted to savor this moment.

Finally. Finally. I felt at peace. It had been three years and 9 months since his diagnosis.