Tanner left on a little cancer retreat with “Reel Recovery.” He was so excited to spend time with other cancer fighters, fishing out in the beautiful Utah summer. And I was so excited for him!
It had been only a day or so of him gone, and he didn’t have great phone service so we couldn’t talk very often. I was in my living room, watching a show with Luke (our dog) cuddled right next to me, and I started feeling an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. My best friend, partner, love wasn’t gone from the world yet, but he wasn’t accessible either…I felt so disconnected and lonely. Is this what it is going to feel like when he is gone from this world? I sobbed and sobbed.
I used to think grief only came after the goodbye, after the funeral, after the loss. But I’ve learned that grief doesn’t wait.
I feel it in the way my breath catches when I hear Tanner laugh, knowing there will be a last time, even if I don’t know when. I feel it in the way I memorize the smile lines around his eyes when he smiles, or when I hear his inappropriate but hilarious jokes… afraid that time will steal that from me too soon. I feel it in the way my heart aches at random moments—while folding all his star wars t-shirts, watching cooking shows with him, or while I’m lying awake at night, alone in bed because he had to move to his recliner for comfort—because grief isn’t just about losing someone. It’s about knowing you will.
This is anticipatory grief. The mourning that happens in the waiting. It’s a grief that doesn’t get much space in conversation because, technically, nothing has happened yet. But for those of us living it, it is happening. Every. Single. Day.
It’s confusing. Some days, I feel deep sadness, as if I’m already grieving a world where Tanner isn’t here. Other days, I feel utter happiness because he is still here, and we can still make memories… shouldn’t I just focus on and be grateful for that? There’s a constant push and pull between holding on and preparing to let go.
What makes anticipatory grief so hard is that the world around you doesn’t always recognize it. People say things like, “At least you still have time,” or “Focus on making the most of it.” And while I know they mean well, it doesn’t change the reality that every new memory is laced with the knowledge that it will one day be a memory. That no matter how much time we have, it will never feel like enough.
So if you’re in this place too—if you’re grieving someone you haven’t lost yet—I want you to know that what you’re feeling is real. You are not alone in the sadness, the exhaustion, the fear, the love. You are not wrong for mourning something that hasn’t happened yet.
There is no right way to carry this kind of grief, but I’ve found that the only way through it is to let myself feel it all. To sit in the sadness when it comes. To hold onto the moments of joy. To let love and pain exist in the same breath. Holding both.