Thursday, February 27, 2014

Five month anniversary and it is not getting any easier

It is five months since Rob's death. How is that possible? I swear it is getting harder. Maybe initially the shock is such that disbelief was my byword. Then numbness. Oh I assure you grieving is taking place all along. The roller coaster is powering on. But with the passage of time the realization, the real undeniable, unequivocal, indisputable, unmistakable, incontrovertible realization ever so slowly seeps its way into my consciousness. It now goes two ways—He is never coming back and Where is he???

I had lunch with a group of women friends. We used to see each other once a week at tai chi class but that ended quite a while ago. We do stay in touch. They catered the "Celebration" I had for Rob after he died. We have always done food together—cooking, eating, sharing recipes.  


We met for lunch. Six of us. One hugged me and asked how I was doing. Damn, I was truthful. "A bit rocky as today is the fifth month anniversary". And someone else cheerfully asked what anniversary? "The fifth month anniversary since Rob died"

That went over like a lead balloon. There was stunned silence. One of those pregnant pauses. And then they went back to chatting about what they had been doing since the last time we all got together.

I never felt so alone as I sat there and the conversation just washed over me. Guess my recent experiences with the Bereavement Group where that kind of comment is met with hugs and "I knows" and  "its my 4th or 8th month anniversary" made me forget what the "real" world is like.

It is with groups of people who are not involved with grieving where I run into trouble. One on one there is time for compassion and understanding. But in a group setting it seems to get lost. Or maybe it is hearing about what each of these women did, were doing, planned to do with their husbands that isolated me. There was no way to make a connection, no way to share an experience, and no way to think that someday Rob and I would do that.






Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Newton's Third Law of Grieving

Newton's Third Law—for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. I felt whole and complete, and I suppose in control. That was then. Now I feel fractured, scattered, shattered. And that there is any hope of control is an illusion.

The feeling of being okay is now replaced with emptiness and longing. Where I was able to stand on my own two feet, I succumbed to a cold and crawled into bed. My feeling competent has been swapped out with an inability to focus.

I am caught in suspended animation. That moment of zero gravity. Free floating, no direction, no choice. Everywhere I look I see evidence of my past life with Rob. And who I was and where I was going. I can not see beyond.

I recognize I have been running and running and running. Apparently I finally caught up with myself. Catching a cold was my unconscious forcing me to stop. This cold is the one I could not have had with Rob during his chemo. There was no way I could get sick. So I didn't. But now that it is just me here....the cold stopped me dead in my tracks. Words are so interesting aren't they?

My answer to How are you? is Fine except when I'm crying. And I seem to be doing a lot of that again. Imagery fills my head, of peeling layers of the onion, of spirals, of dropping a pebble in a pond and the concentric rings that emanate, of my faithful roller coaster or ferris wheel or carousel. 

Each time I am here I think it is the first and only time. Or if I do acknowledge I might have been here before then this time it is deeper or darker. And then I go back and reread my posts. And surprise! I have been here before.



Sunday, February 16, 2014

A reprieve from grieving the death of my husband

I took a trip—four whole days away. A big deal—flying, renting a car and driving two hours by myself to meet up with "virtual" friends. I have lots of "virtual" friends, people I've met online or only know from the phone. People I had never met in person. And here I was planning on sharing a hotel room with two of them.

In the days leading up to the weekend I alternated between abject terror—how could I do this?!?! And feeling that I would be fine. And I promised myself that if on the morning of the flight, if completely overwhelmed I would just stay home.

And then I found myself at the airport. Navigating the signage to find my flight and gate. And I felt okay. Even having my bag pulled out and inspected did not upset me. It just served as an interesting distraction.

Something had changed. I don't know what, a shift of some sort. I was doing fine. Oh I cried in the car during those two hours of driving. Passed through an area Robert and I had driven, and I got to wondering why we had not done more exploring. A moment of regrets.

When I was planning this adventure I kept thinking this "was the first time". The first time I was flying alone, the first time renting a car alone, the first time checking into a hotel alone. All alone. I had taken the first time to mean ever, not just the first time since his death.

But as I was driving I remembered doing all of these things numerous times in the past. It was like my memory only went back two and a half years, to the hospital room after Rob's original surgery, waiting for him to wake up. That is my image. With amnesia for any life of my own before that moment. And now the memories are coming back. Filling the blank spaces in me.

I checked into the hotel with a reservation made by someone I did not know and who was not even going to be there. Much to the confusion of the person at the desk. My friends arrived and it was like we had known each other forever.

We laughed, talked, went to dinner, to bed, and to the horse event. What amazes me was that I was able to be and stay in the moment. Be with my friends. Enjoy myself. Experience what was going on around me. And never feel alone. Or abandoned.

And with this awareness of being whole, I now felt guilty. How could I be enjoying myself? How could I manage to travel on my own? How could I laugh? How could I feel okay? Was this a betrayal of Robert?

I was in uncharted territory. Yes I cried several times during the four days. But it was never that overwhelming grief. That did not hit until I was back in familiar territory. Back home. Stopping at the supermarket and seeing the handicap parking space I used to pull into for Rob.

So yes the grief is still there. I am still trying to make sense of what happened to me on this trip.  Guess I got a few days off from grieving.