The Stage of Mixed Feelings

The process of grief is an emotional roller coaster. You experience sorrow, fear, anger, guilt, relief, denial, numbness, frustration, anxiety, often in rapid succession. And sometimes you feel multiple feelings at the same time. I have reached a stage of constant mixed feelings. 

I am approaching four months since my husband passed away, and I feel like to some degree my emotions have begun to stabilize. The grief is still there, a constant undercurrent, but it is less raw. I have learned to manage it, to push it aside when I need to deal with practical issues, and to let it loose at an appropriate moment when I need a release. But what is still hard to manage are the constantly conflicting feelings. 

I think this is part of the "guilt" portion of the Kubler-Ross stages of grief. I am starting to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I shouldn't be able to do that. But at the same time, I am struggling to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I should be able to do that. I rejoice at my independence but I feel guilty about my independence. It's a conflict between knowing in my head that it's okay to be okay while at the same time feeling in my heart that I should never be able to be okay again. It's confusing, it's frustrating, and it's exhausting. 

Any time I think about changing anything about our lives or making a decision he might not have made, whether it's cutting my hair or decorating the house differently for the holidays or taking a trip or letting my daughter dye her hair or letting my son go to a rap concert, I feel like I'm betraying him in a way. Should I be respecting his opinion even if he isn't here to express it? Do I have a responsibility to honor his wishes even after his death? Or does taking on the role of father as well as mother give me permission to make decisions for our household completely on my own, without trying to guess what he would have done? The emotional weight of every decision, large or small, is intensified a hundredfold.

But the bottom line is that he's not here, and I am. I'm the one making the decisions, I'm the one running the show, whether I want to or not. And all I can do is the best I can. I make my choices based on what I know and how I feel. I listen to my heart as well as my head. I look to those around me for guidance and reassurance. And I pray. A LOT. 

I sometimes ask myself what he would say if he were here. I imagine how the conversation would have gone if we were discussing it together. After all, we had hundreds, probably thousands of discussions about family-related decisions over the course of our marriage. I don't always know exactly what he would have thought or said, but I do know that in the end, he would always have supported me. He was, after all, as he frequently reminded me, my Fan Club President. 

And I know he still is. 

His Heart Gave Out

More than three months after my husband died, I finally received his completed death certificate. It lists his cause of death as "probable cardiac dysrhythmia of natural etiology". In other words, his heart gave out. 

What a fitting end for a man whose heart gave out so much to so many. 

When we were first dating, he told me that his mother had taught him that some people are givers, and some people are takers. She taught him to be a giver, and he saw that I was a giver, too. We frequently joked that we had both gotten a double dose of the volunteer gene. We always consciously tried to give back to those around us, whether by donating money to charitable causes, donating our time and talents to organizations we supported, inviting young people to stay in our guest room rather than couch surfing, hosting parties for our friends, taking students under our wings as mentors or cheerleaders, or simply seeing jobs that needed to be done and doing them. 

Given our disparate personalities, the ways in which we gave often looked very different. I was the one quietly working by myself in the background, figuring out what job wasn't covered and taking care of it. At parties, I was usually the one collecting empty plates for the trash, making sure the platters of canapes are circulating, and refilling everyone's wine glasses. He, on the other hand, was always the center of activity (and frequently attention). He was the one at the party leading a sing-along around the piano or telling a story to an eager crowd gathered around him. With his friendly, easygoing, gregarious, extroverted personality, everyone in the world was simply a new friend he hadn't met yet, and he rarely forgot someone that he had met. He loved getting to know people. His list of Facebook friends and LinkedIn contacts numbered in the thousands. And not only was he happy to help any one of them, he was happy to help them to help each other. Whenever he found out someone he knew was looking for a job outside of his own area of experience and expertise, he would put them in touch with another of his contacts who could help. I know of dozens of friends who got a job through either his own connections or a connection they made through him, and I have no doubt there are dozens more that I don't know about. 

Not only did he give of his time and talents, he gave eagerly, generously, and passionately. It wasn't enough to occasionally volunteer with his son's BSA Scout troop; he had to become an Assistant Scoutmaster, a Merit Badge counselor, and an Outdoor Activities Coordinator. He didn't just send an occasional check to his college fraternity; he served on their Alumni Volunteer Corporation for many years, including as both President, and Vice President of Facilities (which is essentially serving as the landlord/property manager of a frat house - no job for the faint of heart!), and hosted a series of young itinerant SigEp regional directors in our home as a break from their travels. He held many offices in his Masonic Lodge, sometimes stepping into the line of succession to fill an empty seat; but he also stepped in at the last minute when someone was missing from a ritual, and was known for staying to finish cleaning up long after other members had gone home. He not only faithfully attended his children's theatrical and dance performances, athletic meets, concerts, and school presentations; but he also chaperoned field trips and band competitions, volunteered to speak to the Digital Literacy classes about Artificial Intelligence and Cybersecurity, and mastered a mean ballerina and gymnastics bun.  

He was not a man to do things halfway. He was a man with a heart as big as his smile. He was a man with a heart for giving. A heart that gave out, and gave out, and gave out, until it gave out. 

The heart of a giver, just like his mother taught him. 

This Was Just a Moment in the Woods

Much to my husband's chagrin, I have always been a fan of Stephen Sondheim musicals. (He was...not.) I often find Sondheim's lyrics to be particularly moving and heartfelt. Some of my favorite lyrics are from the song "Any Moment/Moments in the Woods" from the musical Into the Woods. Here are some of my favorite passages:

Days are made of moments, all are worth exploring
Many kinds of moments, none is worth ignoring
All we have are moments, memories for storing

This was just a moment in the woods - Our moment
Shimmering and lovely and sad
Leave the moment, just be glad for the moment that we had
Every moment is a moment when you're in the woods...

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand?
Is it always "or"? Is it never "and"?

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before

Life is, indeed, made of moments, some good and some bad. Grieving highlights those moments, emphasizing them, heightening them, and often flipping back and forth between good and bad with a speed that literally knocks the breath out of you. 

Yesterday I went shopping at Costco. This may sound like a routine, everyday event, and in some ways it is. Except that my husband and I frequently used Costco runs as an opportunity to spend some couple time together, like a daytime date. When he had a midday gap in his schedule, we'd take advantage of being able to shop during the quieter weekdays. In the car, we'd chat about his job, the kids, whatever was going on in our lives. We'd talk through vacation plans, catch up on news of extended family, review our weekly calendar. When we got there, he would grab a cart from the parking lot and "ride" it by jumping on the back and letting it careen, full-tilt, through the lot, often pretending to be out of control, flailing his arms and screaming comically to make me laugh. 

I'm at the point where that memory was able to make me smile, despite a little bittersweetness. It was a good moment. 

But then I got to the bakery section, and I saw that one of the employees was a long-time acquaintance. I didn't know if he'd heard about my husband's passing, and I couldn't bear to have him ask about him and have to tell him the bad news. I took the coward's way out and skipped that section. It was a bad moment. 

I bought a bag of birdseed - a 35-pound bag of birdseed. I never used to have to lift the heavy items; my job was to steady the cart while my husband did the heavy lifting. As I struggled to get the giant bag under the cart without the cart rolling away, I had another moment. Another bad moment. 

I was able to stay composed all the way until I got to the checkout, when I noticed the cashier in the next lane over. This particular employee bears a striking resemblance to actor JK Simmons, known for Broadway, television, films, voiceover work, and commercials, most notably commercials for Farmers Insurance. Whenever we saw him, we'd nudge each other and quietly sing the Farmers Insurance jingle: "We are Farmers, bum ba-dum bum, bum bum bum," and then we'd giggle. So without even thinking, I started to sing the jingle. And realized I was singing it alone. And that he would never be here to sing it with me again. 

I barely made it to the parking lot before I burst into tears. It was a bad moment. A very bad moment. 

But then I thought about the lyrics, "just be glad for the moment that we had," and "just remembering you've had an 'and' when you're back to 'or' makes the 'or' mean more than it did before." I tried to focus on not the loss, but the love. I tried to embrace the joyful memories of spending time together, of enjoying and celebrating even the mundane moments in life like shopping at Costco. 

What a gift it was to be a part of such a special "and." He and I, together, were the best "and" I could ever hope for or imagine. I had the gift of nearly 18 years of being part of the most wonderful "and." That is something to be celebrated. It was a time filled with so many good moments. 

Enough good moments, in fact, to carry me through the bad ones. "All we have are moments, memories for storing." I have stored many good moments in my memories, moments I can call on to remind me of the joy I had as an "and." 

The bad moments only exist because the good moments did. I couldn't miss our Costco trips if we'd never made them. I wouldn't miss having cocktails on the porch if we hadn't spent so many lovely evenings enjoying them together. 

I wouldn't feel a pang looking at our beautiful pool if it didn't evoke the joyous memories of designing it together and spending so many evenings relaxing next to it together. 

I wouldn't get a pang looking at his Scout hat if I hadn't seen him wearing it on so many trips with both of our kids, picturing his proud, beaming face under it. 

When I think ahead to my children's weddings and realize he won't be there to give away our daughter or pass on some fatherly advice to our son (bad moment), I can remember how joyful and proud he was to be part of his older daughter's wedding (incredibly good moment). 

When I have a bad moment, I will be glad for all the good moments that we had. And eventually, the "sad" will be outweighed by the "shimmering and lovely." But for now, there is still a lot of sad. 

And that's okay. Because it's still only a moment. And moments pass. 

Just be glad for the moment that we had.