The five stages of grief

You’re not the first, neither the last one, Tristan, echoed the voice of his superior. A more experienced man that he respected for his devotion to the church.

You will overcome this hardship with the guidance of God.

It is alright to doubt, we all have, at some point.

Have you, Father?, he had asked, desperate. I have. The demon is tempting you, do not stray from the path.

An impossible choice with losses on both sides, Frances, or God’s goodwill? It ate his heart. And his superior’s words kept flooding him. Again, and again, like waves crashing upon a cliff, digging its hole little by little. Just like that fossil beach she had shown him.

You are young, fit as a fiddle, it is normal to experience such … things.

Lust? Did he yearn to have her, physically? He certainly longed to pass his hands in her fiery tresses, just to know what they felt like.

She is probably not the first nor the last.

Wrong. She was the first … he hoped she would be the last, for he never wanted to experience such pain again.

It shall pass, all hurts heal with time.

How much time? How long would this agony last?

She is merely an addiction.

A mighty addiction, for he couldn’t think for five minutes straight without his mind returning to her.

It is the uniform that attacks them. Once you’re out if the frock, they go on their merry way.

Would she? Would she walk away from the very ordinary man he was?

Does she doubt the church? Our sacred duty?

Nod, throat closed. Yes, Frances doubted the Catholic Church with all her might, even if she had come to respect it for his sake. She was an atheist at heart, she believed in her own path. Spiritual, yes, but so unfaithful to church.

Sometimes they just seek to corrupt what is untouchable. As if they could make the angels fall to prove their misguided ways. Stay true to God, my son, and he will reward you. Should you fall, that woman won’t be here to pick you up.”

Yes. In a year or so, Frances would be gone, just a memory of theology debates and twinkling eyes.

Doubts

Doubts about Frances, doubts about her aim, her feelings, her smile. She would never want him to fall, consciously. But the unconscious was mean enough; she’d been raised against the church. How strongly did her education steer her goals? Her affections? How truthful was she, even to herself?

Did she love him, the man? Or the priest in a frock? The status, the power, the duty?

Doubts … doubts that lingered, and ate at him little by little.

Denial. No, she didn’t tempt him that way. Not yet. He had no fantasies other than holding her, and being by her side. Chaste love. Deep love, fed by everything he was. God’s love. Nothing carnal.

It was different from marital love. Perhaps his superior was right, perhaps she was just a friend, after all, and the pain would pass.

But it didn’t. Not yet. She populated his thoughts, his days and nights, his hopes and despairs. Yet, Tristan kept functioning. Like a machine whose faith was ground like a cheese upon the grate.

Tristan was a curious, educated man. He knew the stages of grief. Denial was not an option anymore; Frances had just put words upon the feeling they both experienced. She loved him, just as much as he loved her.

No. He was IN LOVE with her.

Anger. It had come swiftly, stronger that a tsunami, laden with guilt and incomprehension. Why couldn’t she accept friendship? What did his heart betray him so? Why did God send her into his church, only to take her away? Why, why, why! He hated her for putting him in front of the inconsistency, for pointing the loneliness of his life. Hated life for ripping his heart out.

Anger left just as suddenly as it had thundered in, with pieces of himself. As the wave retired from shore, Tristan was left to witness the destruction of his previously well-groomed heart. His life now looked like a beach with upturned trees, structures strewn everywhere, shambles of a past equilibrium that he would have to build anew.

He reminded himself of his father after his mother's death. Empty.

Bargaining didn’t come; he was too rational, too perceptive for this. Faith wasn’t about striking a bargain with God. Faith was about believing in its almightiness, and accepting one’s fate. Trusting that higher powers put in his path the ordeals that would make him a better man, knowing that HIS full support would aid him through.

But he couldn’t feel it, this precious support that had led him for the past years. Every time he tried to connect, to pray, no matter if he sank to his knees or even laid on the church tiles, he couldn’t feel the love of God flooding through his veins. Had he been abandoned, shunned because of his impure thoughts? Did his path lay elsewhere?

Depression hit him twice as hard, for he had no anger left to sustain him. Temper short, Father Tristan could only nod when people told him he looked a little sickly. Parishioners, well-wishers, people who cared about him telling him to rest.

Food had no taste, life smelt like ashes, the light didn’t warm him up anymore even though temperatures were rising. Sleepless nights and little food eventually won the game.

It started with a little cough that spread into his lungs, fever followed, harsh, burning through him like the flame burnt the candle to the ground. He prayed, and prayed in his bed, hoping that this burning fire would, eventually, release his body. Passion, consuming him entirely, leaving behind a shell of man.

In his delirium, Tristan tried to push away her beautiful smile, but she refused to relent. As the fire seized control of his mind, her slender fingers landed on his cheek, bringing such solace that he sighed. His half-lidded eyes spotted her form, lying beside him, her warm chocolate eyes melting as she took in his state. From up close, he could count the freckles upon her little nose. Her fingers grazed his cheekbone, then caressed his sweaty brow. A gentle gesture, over and over again, that eventually lulled him to sleep.

— “Rest, Tristan. Rest, my love”, she whispered in his hear.

Fresh light flooded his chest, cooling down his burning body to allow slumber overtake him. For the first time in days, Tristan’s breathing deepened as he sank into the recesses of healing sleep.

When he eventually woke up more than 36 hours later, he expected Acceptance to settle in his heart. Sadness had been burnt away, anger evaporated, and denial reproved. So why did his heart ache all the same, longing for her touch, her embrace? Longing for the solace of her presence, the joy of her tingling laugh? The fire of her beautiful hair in the winter light?

Father Tristan resumed his duties, an empty shell, short of breath and painful muscles. And still, God refused to flood him with his light. Oh, he could feel it, just at bay, caressing the frock upon his back, enveloping him when he prayed. Yet, it refused to settle in his heart.

Tai Chi routines helped him build his strength again; it silenced his running thoughts for a blessed moment.

And in his mind kept returning to that fated moment when, in four days from now, he would have to say Goodbye for real. For eternity. To wish her well on the path that would take her away from him.

Four days.

Three days.

Tristan knelt before the altar, his heart scorched, begging for a sign. Anything. “Please, help me, point me in the right direction,” he whispered, hands joined in prayer, his heart struggling to open to God. Once more, the almighty remained silent, and Tristan exited the church, defeated. What had he done, to deserve such scorn? Was loving such a great sin ?

Father Tristan walked home, his collar indicating to anyone around that he was available. Yet his features were harsh, closed off. His eyes firmly set on the ground until a slight breeze compelled him to look up.

A misstep nearly sent him tumbling down the floor. On the other side of the pedestrian street, behind the cables of the tramway walked Frances with a bunch of friends. They surrounded her, chatting merrily. She responded in kind, her lips slightly lifted, as if to laugh. But the merry expression never came, and when their attention shifted to something else, a frown marred her face once more.

Tristan’s heart clenched, his chest constricting painfully. She was there, fifteen metres from him, yet so far away. He couldn’t help detailing her features, drinking in the sight of her. She seemed thinner, paler somehow. Her eyes dull, devoid of joy. In agony, just like he was. For a blessed moment, he considered crossing the street and winding his arms around her to never let go. The thought was enough to lift his mood, his blood running stronger in his veins.

Reality crashed into him like a freight train. He couldn’t. His gaze dropped to the cold concrete at his feet. If he took this very simple step back … renewed their acquaintance once more, the consequences would be dire. Like an addiction, he would have to suffer through all of it over again. Wouldn’t he? The priest passed his tongue over his upper lip, considering his options.

A tramway was fast approaching, its typical grating sound coming from the east. The machine would shield her from him in just a moment. One last look. Just one, and he would go.

When Tristan lifted his gaze, he was surprised to meet her eyes. Twenty or so feet away, Frances had stopped dead in her tracks, watching him. There was so much sadness in her gaze, such despair that it stole his breath away. An eternity passed as they connected, their hearts beating in unison once more, both clenching in pain. This emptiness was so crippling, too overwhelming that he prayed for the ground to swallow him whole.

The sound of the tramway grew stronger, and Frances put a hand above her heart, bowing her head to him. A token of undying love. The proof that her heart belonged to him. Then the long, noisy machine hid her from view. Tristan took a deep, shuddering breath, rooted to the spot. When the tramway left, all he could see what the fiery braid dancing upon her back.

He had asked for a sign … after all.