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Tag Archives: death of spouse

10 Months have passed

11 Thursday Sep 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

I suppose it’s better. I still don’t think straight most of the time. I’m still tired all of the time. I still have to make myself get up and get busy. I still can’t get through a day without screaming “I just can’t believe you’re gone!” in my mind. I still can’t get to sleep at night without my brain replaying those final moments together. Tears still pour unexpectedly several times a day and no matter how I try to bring color back into this life, everything is still mainly shades of grey. Sometimes, though, a pop of color will burst through and for a little while life seems, if not normal, peaceful and acceptable.

We’ve crossed many things off his unfinished to-do list. He’d be happy with the changes. Does that help? No. Not really, but it’s better than not having done those things for him. I want to slap myself most days and yell “Snap out of it! This isn’t who you are!”, it may not be who I was, it sure as hell is who I am today, and I’m not at all happy about that. It is amazing to me that 19 years ago I was self-sufficient, happy, courageous (well, except for flying), and content to be by myself. It is amazing to me that I fell so easily into the comforts of two, as opposed to the contentment of one. I haven’t even seen a glimmer, yet, of the woman who was once completely comfortable with only herself for company.

Many years ago I read a book that suggested that in order to become who we want to be or make a change in who we are or our perception of ourselves, we should pretend to be the person we want to be. The more we pretend, the more the positive actions become habit. When positive actions become so habitual we no longer have to remind ourselves to pretend, we have made the change. This has helped to make moments of the day happier. I tell myself “I should be happy about that.” Then I pretend to be happy. Soon, I’m smiling. One day, I hope this will work long term, but for now it’s good to have some happy moments.

My brain isn’t completely frozen any more. Just muddled. I am able to read and understand most instructions, but I can’t keep them in my head, so I have to constantly reread. I can attain absolute focus on a project for longer periods, but will still often find myself suddenly holding a piece of wood and wondering “Is this a leg or was I working on the apron?” A friend of mine came to visit yesterday. She said it took her about four years for her mind to clear enough that she could think straight after her husband passed away. Suddenly paranoid about the drastic changes in my face, body and hair over the past 10 months, I wonder if I have four years to recover.

I have, on the whole, found friends to be more accepting, or at least more tolerant and supportive, than most family. Most friends refuse to let me hurt alone if I dare make my pain public. Most family politely ignores, probably not knowing what to say. Some friends will do the same, some family members offer as much support as friends. You just never know until it happens to you, who will be there regardless of their comfort level and who will hide their eyes. People will hide their eyes and this can sometimes feel as if they’re kicking you when you’re down. This isn’t usually intentional on their parts and they don’t even realize the effect they have.  Let yourself drift toward those who offer you support, comfort and encouragement on your worst days. Those who can’t take it, will disappear, but those who are willing to stand by you and comfort you during your nightmare will be counted forever as your most worthy friends and family. They’ll be the knights at your round table.

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Being Awesome

01 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

awesomecup

I know I am the least awesome person I know or have ever heard of, but today as I was reading Facebook posts from friends I saw a photo of a coffee cup with the inscription “I’m trying to be awesome today, but I’m exhausted from being so freakin’ awesome yesterday.” and instead of making me laugh, it made me shed tears. Tears for remembering the times I was exhausted and still called on to be “awesome”, called upon to exhibit real world super powers, 18-24 hours a day 7 days a week for a year, and again later in the three months before William died. I tried desperately to be awesome and no matter how awesome I managed to be it was never going to be awesome enough. There was no imaginable level of  awesome that would have been enough to save him, yet I still find myself screaming aloud “I’m so sorry!” to him.

When someone we well and truly love is desperately sick, we don’t have a choice other than to develop super powers. We have to rise to the level of utterly awesome. It’s a small thing really, to be awesome for your business meeting so please don’t wave your brief case around and bellow about how “awesome” you were and how you’re some sort of business “superman/superwoman”. You might have been cool, knowledgeable, and confident, but that meeting lasted what? Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? Get over it. People who are out there caring for those they love have to maintain superhuman awesome for weeks, months or years. They will never, not ever, puff up and brag over drinks nor will they ever feel like doing so because they know that even though some may think they not only hit but sustained the upper heights of awesome, they know it wasn’t and could never be awesome enough. It’s great to feel good about yourself and proud of your business or artistic accomplishments, just know you’ll at some point in your life need to reach levels of awesome that make your spread sheet presentation feel like a vacation in the Bahamas.

There’s a mother out there who has a child with Rett Syndrome who is running a house, a business and taking care of her other two children all while taking constant care of the daughter who has been having back to back seizures all day for days. She doesn’t feel awesome at all. She feels rather helpless most days, but it’s a job and a level of strength she can’t and wouldn’t even think of quitting. People like this aren’t doctors or nurses. These people are the true front line of health care. They don’t get to leave after a rough 12 hour shift. They don’t get days off, vacation time, or a salary. In many instances these people can barely take off ten minutes to take their own shower, much less a lunch hour. If they can find someone to come sit with their loved one for an hour, they can’t use it to nap, they have to go to the grocery, the attorney, the bank, or the post office. Doctors and nurses can be awesome, but they can also punch a clock and be gone.

People caring for seriously ill husbands, wives or children are dragging themselves into bed for what probably amount to no more than cat naps. They may never have lifted more than 50-100 lbs and suddenly they’re lifting up to 300 or more every hour. They may not remember where they left their keys, but they’re keeping track of 5 to 15 serious medications with varying dose times so that it is impossible to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. They’re running around juggling thermometers, medications, washcloths, heating pads, fresh sheets, food, drinks, mops, Lysol spray and Clorox wipes, bank statements, multiple medical appointments, bills, insurance forms, financial forms, and legal forms as well as trying to be good, uplifting company for the person they care most about. They’re out there trying to figure out ways to get over, under or through obstacles the disease, the treatments, the multiple medical offices, the financial institutions, insurance companies and the bureaucracy erect solidly in their paths. Just as soon as they leap, climb, dig under or plow through those hurdles, the disease, illness or red tape changes the game and they have to start all over. They are Sisyphus.

If you’re a decent human being caring for someone you love who is desperately ill, no matter how tired you are you’ll will yourself be awesome today, you’ll exert that same will tomorrow, and you’ll claw your way to a whole new level of awesome later if it’s needed. You’ll be awesome when there’s hope and you’ll be awesome if there’s no hope left. It just won’t ever feel like it no matter what anyone says or how many coffee cups you own to remind you.

 

 

 

 

 

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Remember that silly thing

26 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

billiampool

Remember that silly thing we used to do, keeping time to the point of outright conducting the Star Trek Next Generation theme with our feet, getting more and more raucous with the musical crescendos until the finale when we’d send our feet crashing into each other and giggling uproariously at our child play. Yeah, I still do that, just without the chorus of giggles at the end, and I see your feet.

We finally have Netflix. When you said you thought we’d like Star Trek Enterprise, you were right. You’d have loved it. They took the opening sequence straight out of your head. Long after you might have gotten bored with the episodes, you’d have still tuned in to see the opening. All the things you loved about the history of the space program and your dreams for the future are all there except one. I can hear you complaining “And WHERE is the X-15??” Thanks to you, I noticed that glaring omission by myself on the very first episode I watched.

I finally started getting back in the pool, but I find it’s about deadly dull in there now. I pretty much just do my exercises and cool off. I haven’t gotten out any of the pool toys and the noodles are still in the hall closet where we left them the end of last summer. It’s kind of pointless to have a seahorse race with just one entrant, or torpedo battles with no one to sink or be sunk by. The stealthy ninja tiger shark is still hibernating in the patio cabinet because there’s no one to sneak up on. Even the pretty pool disco lights haven’t been out this year because there’s no big back to swim under them to provide wide screen kaleidoscope viewing.

I finally started reading a little again. Remember how we used to fantasize about 24 hour book stores? Remember how I had a massive migraine one night while living in Montana and you read “Long Dark Teatime of the Soul” to me long distance? Yeah, AT&T loved us. Their stock probably dipped significantly when I moved down here. I haven’t been able to sit still long enough to read more than recipe or project instructions. I can get through a whole chapter, sometimes two, without the sudden urge to get up and wander. I still plug myself into my iPod at night to listen to Harry Potter books, but now it’s not because I want to be told a bedtime story, it’s to drown out my own internal screaming.

Did I just hear you say “Blattner”? I still call them Home Despot, Dead Robin and Ten Minute. You’re still in everything, every day and when I’m alone I find my outside voice saying “Oh god I love you so much!” to the dashboard, the ceiling, the walls and the sky.

billiampoolmonster

 

 

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Dreams

15 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, dreams of dead spouse, grief, how to handle grief

Generally my dreams of William have been joyful ones, at least until I wake up and realize I was dreaming. They consist of various versions of “Honey I’m home!” and last only a few seconds until I leap up in shocked surprise and grab him in a bearhug that would crush a car.

But yesterday, as I dozed resting my back, I dreamed that John and I had gone to Disneyland. I’ve never been to a theme park of any kind, and in this dream Disneyland was only about an hour drive from our house. Somehow, John and I got separated in this vast park and I spent hours rolling my manual wheelchair through miles upon miles of rides, restaurants, vendors, through maze-like corridors in beautifully appointed buildings, up ramps and down until my arms could absolutely do no more.

Lost, terrified, helpless, too exhausted to move, I burst into hopeless sobs. A hand grasped my shoulder, and I turned to see William there. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. You’re fine. I’m here. I found you.” And for that second, it was indeed the happiest place on earth.

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Who am I now?

07 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

death of spouse, grief

Everything changes, including us. One year we’re one thing, next year or ten years later we’re something quite different. Once I was a wild child, next I was a struggling single parent totally unhappy with where I was both geographically and socially, next I was a wild spirit, unfettered, a sponge soaking up nature and formal education, strong, creative, full of joy over simple things like watching a friend’s deft, graceful hands as she mixed and kneaded frybread dough.

Then I fell in love and moved to Arizona. Still strong, over-flowing with love for my husband and utterly joyful at simple things like making sure he had a good dinner in the evenings, treating him to breakfast and coffee in bed every day to make it easier for him to get up for work, a kiss and a wave goodbye every weekday morning to let him know how much I loved him. I was, at first, convinced I could still be the self sufficient, strong, nature worshipping woman I’d been when we fell in love. This city couldn’t beat me down I thought, and I tried, over and over again, to find some part of this new place where I could just be me.

I would haul the boys out into the desert to see cactus, rocks, or pick prickly pear fruit for jelly. These jaunts became amusing memories but they weren’t terribly amusing until the broken foot healed and all the prickly pear thorns worked their way out of my skin. I tried to find poetry in the desert that others told me about, it’s austere beauty, but all I have ever seen here reminded me of the desolation of Smaug (from the book, not the movie), “The land about them grew bleak and barren, though once, as Thorin told them, it had been green and fair. There was little grass, and before long neither bush nor tree, and only broken and blackened stumps to speak of ones long vanished. They were come to the Desolation of the Dragon, and they were come at the end of the year.” Tolkien, The Hobbit

The one place I could find my free spirit again was at a local lake. Every summer I would wade out into the lake where, buoyed by the water and smiled upon by an immense blue sky, I would fish at least once a week. Between finding a rattlesnake had curled up in the shade of my folding chair, while I was in it, and the time the boys came across one and decided to “play” with it while I was fishing, my days at the lake came to an end and I began staying home.

I planted things, watered things, redecorated the kitchen, tried a great many crafts, and continued to try and keep the home front a happy place for William at the end of his stressful workdays. We finally moved out of the city and built a home on a couple of acres. This meant a long commute, but he enjoyed having the time to adjust his mind between work and home and he absolutely loved the little farm. I enjoyed it because I had more space to breathe and recreate myself, turning toward that vital part of me that requires a large amount of sky, no traffic noise, and a pool where I could water the roots of my spirit. When a spirit is as drought stricken as mine was a swimming pool is quite a good enough substitute for a lake or stream.

I threw myself back into my lifelong love of horses and collected a barn filled with ponies of all colors. I enjoyed the colors of the desert sunsets, enjoyed the ponies and lived for the evenings and weekends when William came home and my love and joy with him would remind me why I was still here. But he’s gone, and after 18 years, I find it’s not so easy to reinvent myself, to find what I packed away upon moving here and to bring to life what the pointed, poisonous and desolate desert has dried up inside. This is the vital task that must take priority over all the problems I’ve been left with. Without finding my self, my strength, my spirit, my stubborn hard headed soul, and my joy in nature, the problems and the grief will never dissipate and will compound. William planted me here and did his level best to nurture me, I have to find a way to bloom.

In the words of Kurt Vonnegut “Who am I this time?”

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