Hallam Died

In the early 90's I took a seminar in Victorian Literature.  It was a small class, only 11 of us, taught by an amazing instructor.  Who *really* loved the Victorian era, and wanted us to learn, well, everything.

It was exhausting.  The class met once a week.  We were supposed to have read that week's novel (have you ever read an 1800's novel?  Really really long,  Really really involved.  Lots of sturm und drang and angst.  Every single adjective they could think of. ).  In addition, we had to research some aspect of Victorian life and write an essay on it.  Of which we made copies for everyone and were expected to have read the other 10 essays from a previous week.  And do at least one long class presentation each.

As the term wore on, we all began to look like Victorian waifs--hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes.  Came the class where the reading assignment had been Tennyson's "In Memorian" which is a poem of grief over the death of his friend Hallam.  A very long poem.  A poem that goes on for 90 pages.  Most people will recognize one line:  "'Tis better to have loved and lost; than never loved at all."  That's one line.  There are a couple of thousand more.

Dr. Fenstermaker opened the class.  "All right.  "In Memorian."  Who would like to start?

Crickets.

Finally someone spoke up.  "Hallam  died."

Dr. F:  "Would anyone like to expand on that?"

Another student, who had been resting her forehead on the table, lifted it: "Tennyson mourned."

Dr. F:  "Perhaps a bit more?"

Another voice:  "A lot."

Dr. F:  "Come on--let's get going."

We all looked at each other. The consensus was that we had about summed it up.  Tennyson had lost a friend, he grieved, and the rest was commentary.  A *lot* of commentary.


I've decided that grief is like any other major life event--endlessly fascinating to the one who has experienced it, and to everyone else--not so much.

I was at a party once, and ran into a woman I had known a decade or so earlier.  We had both been secretaries in different departments but sometimes borrowed each other's professors.  My point is that we had never been particularly close but we knew each other.  So of course, "Hey, --how have you been?"  Well, turned out that her husband had died several years earlier, and after 45 minutes of hearing about it I was feeling like one of those animals that chew off their own leg  to escape a trap.  Not that I wasn't sympathetic; it just wasn't what I had come to the party for.

I'm trying not to do that.  People ask how I'm doing; I say I'm hanging in there.  And then talk about something else.

How am I doing?  I didn't know that someone could hurt this much and for this long and still function, that's how.  And I know I've got a lot more to go.

So in the privacy of my own home, with only the cats to annoy, I can wallow.  Tennyson is bit lofty, but I've been indulging in Andrew Lloyd Weber.  "Til I Hear You Sing" is a lovely song and in my head I alter the words "hear you sing" to "hear your voice".  (If you want to be able to hum along, the song is   Til I Hear You Sing (on youtube--search it if the link doesn't work).   (BTW, the singer, Ramin Karimloo, has a helluva voice)

                              "The day starts, the day ends; time crawls by
                                Night steals in, pacing the floor
                              The moments creep, but I can't bear to sleep"

Still pertains.  For two months I slept on the couch.  I'm back in the bedroom, but I have to pile stuff (like laundry baskets) on his side of the bed.  I rarely get to sleep before 1:00 a.m.  To sleep, you have to let your guard down, so I have to wait until I'm totally crashing.

                                 "Weeks pass, and months pass, seasons fly
                                     Still you don't walk through the door"

There are many time I hear the cats in the next room, and I somehow think that's the sound of him coming in the house. Or I was working in my cottage the other day, and somehow expected him to drop by for a visit after working in his barn or the garden.

                                      "And sometimes, at night time, I dream that you are there
                                          But wake holding nothing but the empty air"

Yeow!  Need I say more?

                                             "Years come and years go; time runs dry
                                              Still I ache down to the core
                                             My broken soul can't be alive and whole."

No.  I wrote about that in April, when I discussed the Venn diagram of overlapping lives.  There's a big chunk of me missing.  And that's permanent.

                                                   "I turn and it fades away
                                                      and you're not here"

Still not here.  I keep thinking he'll show up somehow.  Maybe when all this COVID weirdness is finally over and things crawl back to some kind of normal.

                                                "Let hopes pass, let dreams pass
                                                  Let them die
                                                 Without you, what are they for?"

That might be the subject of a future post.

                                            "I'll never feel
                                              No more than halfway real"

I spent the last 48 years with Bob becoming the person that I was.  Now somehow I'm becoming someone else.  Just no sure who.  I still often say "we" and, to use modern parlance, I still identify as being married.

So that's the wallowing.  I've earned it, and I'll wallow (and cry) all I want, as long as I'm not pinning someone else in a corner while I do it.  And the fact that Tennyson or Lloyd Weber or Shakespeare can express this for me shows that my sense of loss is universal.  I may feel terribly alone--and trust me, I do -- but this is a path many others have trod before.

And even now what one of my professors called "the dry AED wit" rears its head.  The link to the song above is just the lyrics.  While you're on youtube, you can also find a video of it--complete with puffy shirt, tears in eyes, and the lost love wafting about.  Even I can't wallow quite that much. It's just a wee bit too over the top.  And even though Karimloo has a gorgeous voice, he also has a cute little baby face that's just a little bit at odds with the whole gestalt.