There’s nothing particularly dignified about grief, I thought yesterday, standing in Superdrug looking at a shelf of laxatives. The antidepressants my doctor has given me do help me sleep but they have also left me with a swollen stomach and constipation. That is a good summary of bereavement, really: a stomach ache you can’t get rid of and a whole lot of inconvenience.
There’s a lot more to it too, of course, but that’s a place to start. Ten days ago my husband Kieran took his own life a few hours after texting me that we should think up a list of places we could go on holiday next year. There are all these things now on the surface that we – I – have to deal with in the aftermath of this, lots of stomach aches and inconveniences; things skating above a much deeper pain, darker water.
Photo by Noah Rosenfield on Unsplash
I already know that one day I will reach the other side of this open water, even though I can’t see the shore, even what the shape of it is like; it is beyond the horizon. I know that because I know myself. But I know this is going to be very long and exhausting swimming and sometimes I will need you to help me along, or even just help me tread water.
I loved Kieran for more than a third of my life so far; he loved me too. I never expected that he would go anywhere I couldn’t follow. But here I am, with my swollen stomach and tired eyes and a determination to keep taking one stroke at a time. Because in his own deeply hurting way, what Kieran wanted was for me to have a better life. I already had that, with him. I am glad that for most of his life he knew it, too.
Rachel E. Moss 
Rachel, I know about bereavement and grief; I know too – or at least I believe – that you will eventually reach the other shore (though never the horizon). I’ve been following you both, quietly, online for some time, and more recently I’ve delved back through your archives to be enriched by your various wisdom and insights. I shall miss his (I’m not qualified to use his name as a friend would), and I shall cherish yours all the more. Thank you.
I’m so, so sorry to read this and I can’t imagine what you’re going through.
Rachel, my heart is aching so much for you. I am so, so sorry this is happening to you and to your family. Please know that there are so many of us out here who care about you and want to help you however we can. Lean on us. ❤
Holding you in my heart, Rachel. I know I’m far away, but if there’s ever anything I can do, I’m on it. For now, standing with your many friends as we join hands in a circle, holding a safe space for you to be exactly as you need to be. Love, Candace
I am so sorry to hear this. Thinking of you and sending my support.
Rachel, my heart aches for you. I too am among your long-distance supporters. We met at a masculinity conference once upon a time in Maggie Thatcher’s hometown. I have followed your blog ever since often sharing your words with friends in this silly academic world call home. You have beautifully articulated the struggles of academia and now too, the experience of grief and loss. I lost my son and have experienced the open water you now face. I wish I could swim some of the distance for you. I can attest that you will meet the horizon in time. And we are here alongside. If ever New York City becomes a destination, there is a room here for you, and your daughter. With you from afar, Jessica
So sorry to read your news.
I’m so sorry to hear this. Holding you. You write beautifully about this very very difficult place. May you be able to feel love in this difficult time.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts at this time.
We all share your heartbreak, and offer our support.
The future will never eclipse the past.
For when forgotten it is sought.
When found, cherished.
Heal in remembrance, and hope.
Thank you for your friendship dear Bob
My heart breaks for you. I’m so sorry.
Rachel, you chose a beautiful picture here; the love and fun you and Kieran shared is written over both your faces. Just keep treading water, holding Grace in your arms, as you try to take each stroke to that shore in the distance. You’re not alone. Many caring thoughts and healing prayers are coming your way. Love to you and Grace. Prayers for your beloved Kieran and both your families.
Hugs. Sending lots of virtual hugs.
I’m so sorry to hear of the circumstances of Kieran’s death. It must make the grief about a life cut short even more complex, with a lot of conflicting emotions for you and your daughter. I hope you both are able to find the emotional and practical support from family and friends you need for your long journey to recovery. I send my prayers and good wishes to you now.
And on a basic and practical level – I’ve found eating dried apricots to be a big help in dealing with antidepressant-related constipation.
Hello, I knew Kieran from doing ju jitsu many moons ago in york, he was a good person and had many a giggle with him
Lots of love to you and your daughter xxxx
Rachel, I’ve only met you once or twice in person at medieval studies conferences, but have long admired and valued your voice and wisdom that you’ve shared in this space and elsewhere. I am so unutterably sorry for your loss, and just wanted to say that if there is anything I can do from across the pond during this beyond impossible time, I’ll only ever be an email away. Sending so much love to you and your daughter.