Grief, Love, and the Strength to Keep Going

Grief is brutal! It throws me in every direction—numbness, sadness, fear, anger. I sit with all of it, knowing somewhere deep inside that I will feel better one day, but my mind thinks otherwise, insisting that I’ll never truly move through this.

Today marks three weeks since Eddie passed. Three weeks? It feels like yesterday. Time has continued on, but I’m stuck, standing still. Each day, I push myself to do something, anything, because stopping feels dangerous. If I stop, I might never move again.

Yesterday, I made myself go to the YMCA for dance class. Eddie’s voice rang in my head that morning: “Lisa Fagan, did you dance today?” So I did. And for a while, I actually enjoyed it. My son came with me, and later, he told me he watched me dance for a few minutes. He said I looked happy. That seeing me like that made him happy. Yesterday, I got to step outside my grief, even if just for a moment, and feel something close to joy.

But as quickly as that joy came, I crashed. Last night, sleep felt impossible. My mind kept circling back to the same thoughts—I can’t believe this is my life. Why me? But eventually, through sheer exhaustion, the thought shifted: Why not me? People lose loved ones every single day. In that way, I am no different. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier.

 “With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.”

Eleanor Roosevelt

Today, I’m meeting with the cemetery advisor to discuss Eddie’s gravesite marker. His passing has made me rethink everything—including how I want to be laid to rest. Before Eddie, I wanted to be cremated, my ashes taken to some warm, beautiful beach, scattered into the blue water, and celebrated with music and laughter. Even after I married Eddie, that was still the plan.

But when I started planning his burial, something shifted. I felt it deep inside—I cannot leave my husband. I want to be with him, even in death. So I’ve decided that when my time comes, my ashes will be placed with him. There’s peace in that, knowing I will rest by his side again someday.

Until then, I will dance.