Today was dreary, rainy, and cold. I had the pleasure of training my replacement for part of my job (the part that was originally someone else's, but which I took over for a few months)--I think she will do well, and she is an extraordinarily kind and pleasant woman.
Unfortunately, she talked about her husband incessantly. My husband tells me, my husband says, my husband is my greatest support, my husband wants me to...my husband and I got a second honeymoon to Aruba, my husband, my husband, my husband.
I was not in the right place today to hear about someone else's husband being so great. I think I am looping in selfish right now, and I know that this lady would NEVER have said anything which she thought might have upset me. However, after four hours, I wanted to look at this sweet lady with the nice husband who is so proud of her and scream, "Shut. Up. About. Your. HUSBAND. AL. READ. Y!"
Then, to add to my already bad attitude, I read an essay by a woman who talked about how, in the first year of widowhood, she thought she was in so much pain, but then the fog lifted, and she experienced real pain. Goody. Something to look forward to, by golly.
To cope, I cried, making up for yesterday's tear-free hours, bawling and blubbering, and sobbing until my ears are now clogged up. I took Rocky to the grief counselor, and Nita and I walked around this lovely little prayer garden at the facility, and I read the bricks etched with remembrances of lost loved ones. And I realized--I am sick of loss. My sister said that there is a reason we don't watch Survivor--we appear to be living it. Hey, stay tuned--our little group is huddled here on the island, waiting to see who is next. I never wanted to enter this contest in the first place, but here I am, live and in color.
So, I guess I will have to play the game with finesse.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Rainy Days and Sundays
The Carpenters, I believe, had a song which contained a line about, "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down."
For me, it has become rainy Sundays.
One week after EG died, a Sunday morning about midnight, there was a knock at my door. I hadn't been sleeping, so I was awake, reading, or at least pretending to read.
When I asked who it was, my neighbor asked me, "Can you come out here, please?" I opened the door to find him in the front yard, Rocky next to him, and a handgun in Neighbor's hand.
Neighbor informed me that Rocky had been in his daughter's bedroom, and sure enough, our ladder was leaning against their house, the top of the ladder about six or eight feet below the window. I asked if daughter was hurt, and her dad said no. Rocky said, "Mom, I can explain."
I looked over at his bedroom window, which had been disassembled to allow him to get out, with a contraption made of tae kwon do belts to assist him back into the house. I went Mom-ballistic, telling him that I doubted any explanation could be sufficient for that and telling him to get that ladder and put it away and we would Talk About This Later.
Neighbor said, "No. Leave the ladder there."
He called the police, and I called my sister. Rocky went to the porch and sat down, and after telling me he had been going out his window to walk for hours to get tired enough to sleep and had really been sleeping maybe 2 hours a night, and that he got confused about which house was ours, and that he had been afraid of hurting himself, I decided that, no matter what else happened, he needed to go to the hospital for a psych evaluation. Then Rocky went into what I can only describe as a near-catatonic state.
The police officer asked me if Rocky took drugs. I explained that, given his birth mom's history, I doubted it, but my sister and I tossed his room anyway. Over the years, I have gotten skilled at room tossing, but generally it was candy or snacks I was looking for, not drugs. We checked the alcohol cupboard. Blessedly, we found nothing. The police officer then asked my sister if she thought Rocky was faking. She said no, she doubted it.
Gradually, the police were more gentle with us as they learned what had transpired the previous weekend. However, they asked Rocky to make a statement, which he said he could not do at that time, and they Mirandized him. One week to the day after I lose my husband, I am standing there listening to my son being read his rights.
I rode in the ambulance with the same EMTs as the previous week as Rocky was taken to the same ER where his father had been. Several of the nurses came up and spoke to me, remembering us from the prior Saturday and offering comfort. Eventually, a very calm, benign, warm physician's assistant came in to speak to Rocky, basically empathizing with him and giving him permission to feel so horrible and out of control. Within minutes of his visit, Rocky fell asleep and stayed out for four hours.
Early Sunday morning, in a cold rain, Rocky was transported to an adolescent psychiatric hospital. Of course, the ambulance broke down at the central interchange in Cleveland, and Rocky had to be shifted from one vehicle to another. Of course.
I made it home about noon on Sunday, and my sister told the girls to let me sleep a bit. It dumped rain all day, eventually flooding the back yard and overflowing the gutters. I got up in the early afternoon and heated some pasta someone had made, and the girls and I watched Bedtime for Bonzo, staring at the black and white movie rather than the shades of gray outside. I commented yesterday to Nita that this particular day was the worst day of my life. She said it was the second worst of hers--the worst was the day her daddy died. I realized then that I had the gift of the Saturday morning with her dad, running errands, doing mundane things, and discussing how happy we were with one another and our life together.
Yesterday was another gray rainy Sunday. We were going to go to the movies, but at $7.50 for matinee pricing, we decided that wasn't going to happen when we have Netflix here at home. So Rocky watched The Invisible Man and Dracula, Nita had a friend over, and Kiki did homework, while I cleaned up a little and read some of The Help. At the supper table, my strong-willed Nita brought up the scene where the victim succumbed to Dracula, even bending her head to expose her neck for him to bite. That led to a discussion about whether Dracula had such hypnotic powers to draw his victims in or whether these women were simply simpering ninnies.
After a debate about what we would watch that evening, I declared a moratorium on TV, as there was nothing on smarter than any of us. So, the kids sat around and bickered, and I intervened for a couple hours. We were all tremendously relieved when eight o'clock rolled around and we were able to head off to bed without making it look like we were sick.
So, I need to determine just what we can do on the long gray Sunday afternoons which are coming up this winter, something to distract us from the beckoning depression which would be all to easy to succumb to, much like the intense, unblinking stare from Dracula mesmerizes his victims.
For me, it has become rainy Sundays.
One week after EG died, a Sunday morning about midnight, there was a knock at my door. I hadn't been sleeping, so I was awake, reading, or at least pretending to read.
When I asked who it was, my neighbor asked me, "Can you come out here, please?" I opened the door to find him in the front yard, Rocky next to him, and a handgun in Neighbor's hand.
Neighbor informed me that Rocky had been in his daughter's bedroom, and sure enough, our ladder was leaning against their house, the top of the ladder about six or eight feet below the window. I asked if daughter was hurt, and her dad said no. Rocky said, "Mom, I can explain."
I looked over at his bedroom window, which had been disassembled to allow him to get out, with a contraption made of tae kwon do belts to assist him back into the house. I went Mom-ballistic, telling him that I doubted any explanation could be sufficient for that and telling him to get that ladder and put it away and we would Talk About This Later.
Neighbor said, "No. Leave the ladder there."
He called the police, and I called my sister. Rocky went to the porch and sat down, and after telling me he had been going out his window to walk for hours to get tired enough to sleep and had really been sleeping maybe 2 hours a night, and that he got confused about which house was ours, and that he had been afraid of hurting himself, I decided that, no matter what else happened, he needed to go to the hospital for a psych evaluation. Then Rocky went into what I can only describe as a near-catatonic state.
The police officer asked me if Rocky took drugs. I explained that, given his birth mom's history, I doubted it, but my sister and I tossed his room anyway. Over the years, I have gotten skilled at room tossing, but generally it was candy or snacks I was looking for, not drugs. We checked the alcohol cupboard. Blessedly, we found nothing. The police officer then asked my sister if she thought Rocky was faking. She said no, she doubted it.
Gradually, the police were more gentle with us as they learned what had transpired the previous weekend. However, they asked Rocky to make a statement, which he said he could not do at that time, and they Mirandized him. One week to the day after I lose my husband, I am standing there listening to my son being read his rights.
I rode in the ambulance with the same EMTs as the previous week as Rocky was taken to the same ER where his father had been. Several of the nurses came up and spoke to me, remembering us from the prior Saturday and offering comfort. Eventually, a very calm, benign, warm physician's assistant came in to speak to Rocky, basically empathizing with him and giving him permission to feel so horrible and out of control. Within minutes of his visit, Rocky fell asleep and stayed out for four hours.
Early Sunday morning, in a cold rain, Rocky was transported to an adolescent psychiatric hospital. Of course, the ambulance broke down at the central interchange in Cleveland, and Rocky had to be shifted from one vehicle to another. Of course.
I made it home about noon on Sunday, and my sister told the girls to let me sleep a bit. It dumped rain all day, eventually flooding the back yard and overflowing the gutters. I got up in the early afternoon and heated some pasta someone had made, and the girls and I watched Bedtime for Bonzo, staring at the black and white movie rather than the shades of gray outside. I commented yesterday to Nita that this particular day was the worst day of my life. She said it was the second worst of hers--the worst was the day her daddy died. I realized then that I had the gift of the Saturday morning with her dad, running errands, doing mundane things, and discussing how happy we were with one another and our life together.
Yesterday was another gray rainy Sunday. We were going to go to the movies, but at $7.50 for matinee pricing, we decided that wasn't going to happen when we have Netflix here at home. So Rocky watched The Invisible Man and Dracula, Nita had a friend over, and Kiki did homework, while I cleaned up a little and read some of The Help. At the supper table, my strong-willed Nita brought up the scene where the victim succumbed to Dracula, even bending her head to expose her neck for him to bite. That led to a discussion about whether Dracula had such hypnotic powers to draw his victims in or whether these women were simply simpering ninnies.
After a debate about what we would watch that evening, I declared a moratorium on TV, as there was nothing on smarter than any of us. So, the kids sat around and bickered, and I intervened for a couple hours. We were all tremendously relieved when eight o'clock rolled around and we were able to head off to bed without making it look like we were sick.
So, I need to determine just what we can do on the long gray Sunday afternoons which are coming up this winter, something to distract us from the beckoning depression which would be all to easy to succumb to, much like the intense, unblinking stare from Dracula mesmerizes his victims.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Clothing
Today I cleaned out EG's dresser and closet. I bagged up the clothes in some wonderful paper bags we got the last time we went to the natural foods markets, and I put them in the car and drove them to Goodwill.
No one came out to the loading area despite me driving over the ding-ding cable several times, so I put all those bags on the dock and drove off without them. It was symbolic somehow, leaving his things behind, the sport coats, the ties, his jeans which never were the right length. The suit he wore when we got married. All were setting there on the concrete as I, weeping, went on to the next thing on my to-do list.
In less than a month, I have gone from being content and really rather happy, to someone who is in huge, banging pain all the time. And most likely, who could BE a huge, banging pain as well. What amazes me is how thoughtless people are: the woman who called and then complained about her husband's lack of consideration for over thirty minutes, the people who call me up and say, "I am worried about you--you aren't yourself." And there are those who keep mentioning that they want to DO something. It seems counter-intuitive to me, verbalizing how they want to lessen my burden and "help," but meanwhile, the pressure becomes a burden in itself.
I am not myself--part of me is gone, and the other part is in shock. I know that this is the new reality and I have to live in it. Everyone has to move on with their lives: we cannot freeze ourselves here in this sadness. Otherwise, I am no different than the clothes on the loading dock, being left behind while life moves on to the next thing.
No one came out to the loading area despite me driving over the ding-ding cable several times, so I put all those bags on the dock and drove off without them. It was symbolic somehow, leaving his things behind, the sport coats, the ties, his jeans which never were the right length. The suit he wore when we got married. All were setting there on the concrete as I, weeping, went on to the next thing on my to-do list.
In less than a month, I have gone from being content and really rather happy, to someone who is in huge, banging pain all the time. And most likely, who could BE a huge, banging pain as well. What amazes me is how thoughtless people are: the woman who called and then complained about her husband's lack of consideration for over thirty minutes, the people who call me up and say, "I am worried about you--you aren't yourself." And there are those who keep mentioning that they want to DO something. It seems counter-intuitive to me, verbalizing how they want to lessen my burden and "help," but meanwhile, the pressure becomes a burden in itself.
I am not myself--part of me is gone, and the other part is in shock. I know that this is the new reality and I have to live in it. Everyone has to move on with their lives: we cannot freeze ourselves here in this sadness. Otherwise, I am no different than the clothes on the loading dock, being left behind while life moves on to the next thing.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Good Thing You're Strong
I swear, if one more person points out to me how strong I am, I will run shrieking into the woods and live with the deer, at least those who weren't scared off by my display of irritation. Yesterday, the guidance counselor at Rocky's school said, "Let me hug you. You are so STRONG."
I don't want to be strong. I want my best friend, my partner, my husband back here. I want this bad dream to be over, and things to go back to how they were. I want someone here to reassure me, to listen to me, to help me through the rough spots.
What do you do when your greatest source of support leaves you?
I don't want to raise these kids alone, but I must. I don't want to figure out how to get the tractor running again, to fix the ice maker, to pay bills online, to sleep alone, to do it all well enough. I don't want to face every day with chores, responsibilities, and duties and not have my own personal needs met.
I don't want to be strong, but what other choice is there? To be a blubbering mess day in and day out, hanging on people and sobbing out my misery? To stay in bed all day? To curl up in a fetal position and moan?
Not that these don't sound like viable options.
No..... I. Must. Go. On. One foot in front of the other, one more hour, one more mile, one more day. One more thing. And I have to remember this is my life, and I can spend the time I have left a slobbering mess, lying in my bedroom and staring at the ceiling, or I can get out there and do something.
I haven't even gotten out of bed this morning yet, but I hear Nita in the kitchen, most likely thinking about eggs for breakfast, Harry the dog is going to need to go outside, the chickens need to be let out of the house, and for my own sake, I need to see what this day will bring.
I don't want to be strong. I want my best friend, my partner, my husband back here. I want this bad dream to be over, and things to go back to how they were. I want someone here to reassure me, to listen to me, to help me through the rough spots.
What do you do when your greatest source of support leaves you?
I don't want to raise these kids alone, but I must. I don't want to figure out how to get the tractor running again, to fix the ice maker, to pay bills online, to sleep alone, to do it all well enough. I don't want to face every day with chores, responsibilities, and duties and not have my own personal needs met.
I don't want to be strong, but what other choice is there? To be a blubbering mess day in and day out, hanging on people and sobbing out my misery? To stay in bed all day? To curl up in a fetal position and moan?
Not that these don't sound like viable options.
No..... I. Must. Go. On. One foot in front of the other, one more hour, one more mile, one more day. One more thing. And I have to remember this is my life, and I can spend the time I have left a slobbering mess, lying in my bedroom and staring at the ceiling, or I can get out there and do something.
I haven't even gotten out of bed this morning yet, but I hear Nita in the kitchen, most likely thinking about eggs for breakfast, Harry the dog is going to need to go outside, the chickens need to be let out of the house, and for my own sake, I need to see what this day will bring.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Open house
Last night was the first of many firsts. This time, I left the kids at home to go to Kiki's high school open house. I ran into people who had just heard (and who always ask, "Was it sudden?"), which creates the push-pull in me of giving them information vs. not talking about it yet again. I ran into people who hadn't heard and would say things like, "How's EG?" Um, dead? (Which, of course, leads to "was it sudden?") Most likely fine, but I can't say for sure? Oh, about the same as the past three weeks?
Of course, they could ask where he was, and I could honestly say, "Home." I wouldn't need to add that he was in my closet, or that he hadn't come out of the closet for two weeks now.
My sister and I ascribe to a black sense of humor, believing that laughing at something takes away the power and fear associated with it. We laughed during my parents' issues with Alzheimer's disease, and while some people were rather horrified, I think, it helped us cope when my mother announced that she was pregnant and that the baby was racially mixed (I noted to the staff that Lifetime might not be the best choice for a dementia wing).
My friend N's mother makes the absolute best potato salad on the planet. However, like most great cooks, she doesn't measure but prepares food more by instinct. For years, we have all tried replicating the recipe, which we could never get in writing. When N came home for the funeral, she had her mother walk her through the preparation so she could bring the potato salad for a meal. Afterward, N backtracked and measured all the containers and cooking spoons used in preparation to get accurate levels for the ingredients. Between sessions at the calling hours, people sat down for a meal and, as usual, raved about the potato salad. N announced that she finally had obtained the recipe, which is akin to the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. I said, "Well, we always said someone would most likely have to die to get this recipe, and poor EG was the one who had to take one for the team."
Fortunately, the people who were there got it and were not horrified.
However, right now, I am not in a place where I can laugh, where even jokes won't reduce the awfulness of what happened. I know I need to move on, that my life will pass me by if I wallow in this grief, and that EG would never, ever, ever want me to curl up in a ball and stay there. However, I need to be careful that I find that balance between grief inertia and completely ignoring my own needs.
Of course, they could ask where he was, and I could honestly say, "Home." I wouldn't need to add that he was in my closet, or that he hadn't come out of the closet for two weeks now.
My sister and I ascribe to a black sense of humor, believing that laughing at something takes away the power and fear associated with it. We laughed during my parents' issues with Alzheimer's disease, and while some people were rather horrified, I think, it helped us cope when my mother announced that she was pregnant and that the baby was racially mixed (I noted to the staff that Lifetime might not be the best choice for a dementia wing).
My friend N's mother makes the absolute best potato salad on the planet. However, like most great cooks, she doesn't measure but prepares food more by instinct. For years, we have all tried replicating the recipe, which we could never get in writing. When N came home for the funeral, she had her mother walk her through the preparation so she could bring the potato salad for a meal. Afterward, N backtracked and measured all the containers and cooking spoons used in preparation to get accurate levels for the ingredients. Between sessions at the calling hours, people sat down for a meal and, as usual, raved about the potato salad. N announced that she finally had obtained the recipe, which is akin to the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. I said, "Well, we always said someone would most likely have to die to get this recipe, and poor EG was the one who had to take one for the team."
Fortunately, the people who were there got it and were not horrified.
However, right now, I am not in a place where I can laugh, where even jokes won't reduce the awfulness of what happened. I know I need to move on, that my life will pass me by if I wallow in this grief, and that EG would never, ever, ever want me to curl up in a ball and stay there. However, I need to be careful that I find that balance between grief inertia and completely ignoring my own needs.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Pressure cooker
I am like a pressure cooker of grief. I can go along, hour by hour, minute by minute, and attend to the minutiae, but suddenly the pressure is too great, and I will weep for fifteen seconds or so. Then, back to our new version of normal.
My sister has pointed out to me that, after one of these outbursts, I will announce, "I'm all right." She did add that I don't have to be all right, and why would I be?
Yesterday, no one was all right. I spent the entire afternoon and early evening talking to each of the kids individually. Rocky still has his grief buried so very deep that he is alternately running away from it or picking on his sisters to make them visibly hurt. He keeps insisting he is fine.
Kiki finally melted down in geometry class yesterday, much to the distress of her teacher, who couldn't figure out how to help her and eventually sent her to the guidance counselor's office to depressurize. Kiki informed me that she later returned to the guidance office to tell them, "I'm all right."
Nita, on the other hand, is the most honest of all of us. She's angry, and by golly, we all know about it and have experienced her wrath. She's not all right, she wonders if she will ever be all right, and someone is going to pay for this Hell she is being put through.
Last night, I went to the nearby Borders store to use up a couple of gift cards and do some Christmas shopping, not to mention give everyone some space. I found all kinds of things which made me think, "Oh, EG would like that." So much he won't get to do and see here with us. So, who's going to pay for this Hell?
My sister has pointed out to me that, after one of these outbursts, I will announce, "I'm all right." She did add that I don't have to be all right, and why would I be?
Yesterday, no one was all right. I spent the entire afternoon and early evening talking to each of the kids individually. Rocky still has his grief buried so very deep that he is alternately running away from it or picking on his sisters to make them visibly hurt. He keeps insisting he is fine.
Kiki finally melted down in geometry class yesterday, much to the distress of her teacher, who couldn't figure out how to help her and eventually sent her to the guidance counselor's office to depressurize. Kiki informed me that she later returned to the guidance office to tell them, "I'm all right."
Nita, on the other hand, is the most honest of all of us. She's angry, and by golly, we all know about it and have experienced her wrath. She's not all right, she wonders if she will ever be all right, and someone is going to pay for this Hell she is being put through.
Last night, I went to the nearby Borders store to use up a couple of gift cards and do some Christmas shopping, not to mention give everyone some space. I found all kinds of things which made me think, "Oh, EG would like that." So much he won't get to do and see here with us. So, who's going to pay for this Hell?
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