A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
A link to all previous Grieving Room diaries
Had he lived, my husband would have turned 85 today. When the surgeon, while looking at Ed lying in the hospital bed waiting for surgery to repair his broken vertabrae, asked me, "What does he use at home, a cane or a walker?" I said, "At home he uses a Boflex."
He was a very young, very fit 84, just not young enough or strong enough to beat MRSA.
I had considered publishing a birthday letter that I wrote to him tonight, and have decided instead to address my biggest complaint about my new status as a widow.
So grab a hunk of cheese and meet me on the other side for a little whine.
I read. A lot. I read everything, including the child's game on the Cheerios box if nothing else is at hand.
I have read books that taught me how to paint. How to draw. How to build a house. Or how to write a book.
I have read books like I'm Okay, You're Okay. I read Gail Sheehy's Passages which told me how to age. And Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything which taught me, well, it taught me how to cook everything.
So, why is there no book telling me how to be a widow? How to grieve? When to grieve? And for how long?
I know how to file a claim with the Social Security Administration, the Veteran’s Administration and the life insurance companies. I learned what needed to be probated. And I found out what papers needed to be filed where and with whom.
What I haven’t found is a handy dandy little chart that will tell me how I am doing. I want a book with charts, statistics and graphs. With worksheets and columns that I can use to measure my progress. I want steps one through ten or twenty, or however many steps there are until I can find my way to the other side.
There is a book that tells you what to expect when you are expecting; is it really too much to expect a book that tells you what to expect when your world shifts? Why has some enterprising young psychology or sociology student not done a study? Why don’t we have surveys that help us measure where we are? Then we can compare our progress to the progress of those who have taken this journey before us.
We are all, at heart, the same. We hurt the same. I know your pain. You know mine. Why do we all have to stumble around in the emotional dark of loss alone? Please don’t tell me that everyone grieves differently. We don’t. We may express our pain differently and we may show different faces to the world, but losing one you love hurts us all in the same place. Our tears are all the same mix of salt and water.
When I read Lorikeet’s diary Saturday night, I felt that break deep inside, I felt the swelling in the back of my throat that always means that tears are once again building up. I know what she is feeling. I know what she has to look forward to. I wish there was something I could give her that would help. The most I can do is offer a look at the route I have been taking. It may not be hers, but it is all I have.
It has been fourteen weeks now, a little over three months.
Until the moment he drew his final breath, I did not believe he would die. We fought and won so many battles that he just seemed invincible. When he died, I walked out of his room, leaving his body to the people who knew what to do. I drove an hour home, telling myself that I could not give way to tears at midnight on a dark road. When I got home I allowed myself a small break while comforting his daughter, Gail.
During the following days I was numb. Every time my mind would start to approach the reality of life alone, it skittered away. Gail and I called it our cruise down de Nile. I could not think about forever without him. I still can’t. I can think only of today.
My life remains surrealistic. Nothing feels right, but nothing feels terribly wrong, either. I just have to get through today. Every day. I function. Right now his older daughter is helping me to remodel the living room. I don’t know why I feel it needs to be done, perhaps just to finish the job Ed & I started a year and a half ago.
Writing helps. When I am writing, I am away. I don’t know that I can describe where I am, but I am far away from the reality of my days. It is an escape that I cherish. It doesn’t seem to matter what I write or if anyone will ever read it. Just the act of sitting down and putting words in their proper order is therapeutic.
I have learned to take every advantage I can. If I can pretend, for just 20 minutes that I am okay, that is 20 minutes less that I have to grieve. If I can spend two hours every day writing, that is two precious hours free of grief. If I can enjoy a movie, a play, or an evening with friends, that is another few hours I have stolen from grief. I think about him all of the time, and not always with sadness. I see him in my dreams at night.
But it all still feels so temporary. I feel adrift for the first time in my life. Not lost, but purposeless, rudderless. It is better today than it was yesterday, but I have learned that that does not mean it will be better tomorrow. Although it might.
I know that time is my only ally in this battle against grief. It's just that it takes so long to pass, you know? And I don't know how much longer I will remain in this limbo. Another month, six, a year, two?
Perhaps it is better that I don't know. Maybe knowing the time frame would only cause me despair, and that is exactly what I have been successfully avoiding so far.
But still, I would like a chart or a graph. And a checklist so I can cross off the hurdles, setbacks, and advances and believe that I have accomplished something.