From Quicksand to Quagmire

The early stages of grief are like being trapped in quicksand: You feel like you're sinking, like you're drowning. The slightest move makes you feel like you're being pulled under even faster. The only way to stop sinking is to freeze. You feel completely paralyzed, and completely terrified. 

But as time goes by, it's more like being trapped in quagmire: You can move, but every move takes an enormous amount of effort, like you're fighting against forces that aren't sucking you down, but holding you in place. You're no longer in danger of sinking, but you feel stuck where you are. The effort to move feels like too much, and when you do move, even the tiniest bit of progress leaves you exhausted, mentally and physically. It is so much easier to simply resign yourself to where you are, rather than trying to move forward. 

I was not prepared for the physical exhaustion of grief. Perhaps I feel it more strongly than some, because I have medical issues that are exacerbated by stress. Even nearly a year later, my sleep is constantly interrupted. I can't remember the last time I slept for more than 4 or 5 hours at a stretch. My physical pain is low-level but constant. My anxiety makes me physically tense during most of my waking hours. I am doing more physical labor than I've had to do in the recent past, but instead of building up my endurance, I feel like it is eroding it. It's the level of physical and emotional exhaustion I dealt with when my kids were babies, but without a partner to share the load and encourage me. 

This is not to say that I don't have some triumphs. Mastering a new skill, fixing something around my house, making a dreaded phone call, untangling bureaucratic red tape, all feel like triumphs. But if life were normal, they wouldn't feel like triumphs, they would feel like everyday accomplishments. They would BE everyday accomplishments. They would not feel so overwhelming. 

I crave being whelmed. 

I long for the time when ordinary things are ordinary, not mountains to be climbed. It feels great to climb a mountain; it feels better to not need to climb a mountain. But as long as the mountains are here, I will continue to climb them, even when I'm climbing through quagmire. God sends rain, often in the form of family and friends, that loosens the quagmire, that eases the effort. The quietly extended hands that pull me through when my own energy and motivation have dwindled. My children are loved, clothed, and fed; my bills are paid; my mental health is solid if not ideal. 

It's slow progress, but it's progress. I'm doing okay, it's just not the same okay that it used to be. I'm like a duck: things on the surface look okay, there's just a lot of work going on underneath. 

The Quicksand of Grief

Everyone's experience with grief is different, but for me, grief is like quicksand. It pulls me down, miring me in one place, preventing me from moving ahead. 

Those of us who grew up in the 1980s saw endless depictions of heroes being sucked into quicksand. Any motion would pull them down until they vanished, never to be seen again. 

In reality, due to the relative densities of quicksand and the human body, it is essentially impossible to drown in quicksand. It is very possible, however, to get stuck. Fast movements, such as those of someone who is struggling or panicking, change the viscosity of the quicksand, which causes the person to sink to a certain depth. Only by slow, calm movements and rotating the body into a supine, horizontal position will the person begin to float and be able to escape. 

That's what grief feels like sometimes. The more you struggle to escape it, the more it sucks you back down. It is only when you can bring yourself to relax and accept where you are that it begins to release you. 

The zone between the two extremes can be the hardest of all. You have stopped fighting against it, but you're not yet relaxed or free, and any movement feels like you are weighed down by a heavy anchor, in danger of slipping deeper into the mire. Getting started on anything, from complicated tasks like paperwork and financials to the basic daily work of running a load of laundry or vacuuming the house or making an appointment, feels next to impossible. All you want to do is freeze in place. I am reminded of the sad, haunting song "Losing My Mind" from Stephen Sondheim's "Follies":

The sun comes up, I think about you
Coffee cup, I think about you
I want you so, it's like I'm losing my mind

The morning ends, I think about you
I talk to friends, I think about you
And do they know it's like I'm losing my mind?

All afternoon, doing every little chore
The thought of you stays bright
Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor
Not going left, not going right

These lyrics so perfectly depict where I'm at right now. I'm going through the motions the best that I can, but truly, sometimes I do stand in the middle of the floor, completely paralyzed, with no idea which way to go. I still feel so lost, like part of me is missing and I can't go on alone. And part of me is missing, but I can go on alone. I just have to get started. 

The positive thing is that I've reached the point where if I can just get started, more often than not I can keep going. If I can get myself to open the folder of paperwork and start filling out the form, there's a pretty good chance I'll finish it. If I can get myself to bring the vacuum cleaner up from the basement, I'll probably be able to vacuum most of the house. If I can get myself to look up the phone number, chances are I'll make the call. If I can get myself to agree to going out with a friend, I'll genuinely have a good time once I get there. 

But with grief, like with quicksand, it's important to go slowly. To carefully feel out each step. To pause when you feel yourself sinking. And most importantly, to reach out for the hand of a friend. 

Words and Music

Ever since I was a little girl, two of my great pleasures in life have been reading and music. Even as an adult, I always have a few books on my Kindle or by my bedside that I read a few chapters from daily, and there is always music on in my house and in my car, and I'm frequently singing along with it. 

Over the past few months, grief had stolen both of those pleasures. I couldn't focus my mind long enough to follow the plot of a book, so although I occasionally picked up something to read, I put it down in frustration after a few minutes. And music in any form was so deeply associated with my husband that I could hardly bear to listen to it, and I couldn't sing a note without tears running down my face. Church was especially difficult, as the lyrics of the hymns were so deeply meaningful to me, and often spoke of pain and joy, one of which felt so close and one so incredibly distant. It made his loss even harder to bear, not having those lifelong comforts. 

But I have finally reached a point where I am beginning to be able to enjoy both books and music again. I began by reading a short chapter while I waited to pick up my son after his trombone lesson, or my daughter after her play rehearsal. Or I would put some music on while I was in the shower, so I could hear it, but distantly, or I would play some generic background music when guests came over. And as time has gone on, I've progressed to once again reading several chapters before bed - and, let's be honest, when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep - and turning on some music while I'm making dinner. I can even make it through the hymns at church without crying (most of the time).

One of the hardest parts of losing a spouse is that you lose the most crucial part of the system that supported and comforted you in difficult times. When I lost my mom, my husband was by my side to help me through it. When my brother-in-law died, I was by my husband's side to help him through it. But who do you turn to when the love of your life, your best friend, your confidante, your cheerleader, the one you always turned to, is the one you've lost? And when the things you used to do for comfort no longer comfort you, where do you turn?   

I am grateful for my faith in God, because there were times when I couldn't face even family and dear friends, and all I had to turn to was my faith. Psalm 34:18 says, "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," and I felt how true that was. Perhaps God chose to strip away all the human and earthly comforts I was used to in order to get me to focus on the only support I truly need, God Himself. And He has carried me through this darkest time of my life. 

I guess I must have shown that I do trust Him, and now I'm ready to embrace other comforts, and other pleasures. Like words, and music. I'm glad they're back. 

 

Good Enough

Yesterday, I sent my youngest off to her first day of high school. Today, I sent my oldest off to his first day of sophomore year. In keeping with tradition, they held signs and posed for photos on the front steps. 

 

But the difference was that this year the signs were a little less fancy and the photos were a little less polished. Because they were always a "Dad thing." Dad knew how to print a document with a fancy border and elegant text, and he had a photographer's eye that avoided shadows and lens flare and always had balanced composition. This year, it fell on me. I did the best I could, but I'm not Dad. 

My signs had a simple, rectangular border and a basic font without any shading or highlighting. I apparently picked a color that wasn't dark enough to show up really well in the photos. The photos are framed so the kids are a little off-center, the steps not exactly horizontal. There are weeds visible at the foot of the stairs. I deleted a bunch of the ones where they're both standing up because they have such a significant height difference that I either cut off the top of my son's head or I zoomed out so much that it just looked weird. 

But I got it done. We have photographic evidence of their first day. Years from now, when I put together the whole series of "First Day of School" photos, there won't have to be a gap. The difference in quality might be noticeable to some, but there won't be an absence. 

Except there will be an absence. We will always remember, when we look at these photos, that this was the first big moment when Dad wasn't there. When we had to carry on with normal life even though it was far from normal. When Mom stepped in and did her best, but it wasn't quite the same. 

I expect there to be a lot of moments like that in the future: Not quite the same. When they graduate from high school, we won't have the standard photos of Mom and Dad framing the beaming graduate. But we'll have photos, and although it won't be quite the same, it will be good enough. When they get married, Dad won't walk my daughter down the aisle or give my son "manly advice" and a fatherly slap on the back, but I'll be there. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they buy their first house, Dad won't be the one sabering champagne to celebrate, but one of us that he trained will be. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they become parents, Grandpa won't be there to hog the baby, but Nana Pott will have plenty of cuddles and lots of stories of the amazing, funny, wonderful, loving grandfather that they never met. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. 

Nothing will ever be the same. But I think it just might be good enough. 

It's Nothing, and It's Everything

This morning started well. I woke up in the early morning hours and heard my beloved owls hooting in the backyard. I fell back to sleep for a few more hours, so I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It was a lovely morning, sunny and cool. I got up, patted the cat sleeping in my bathroom sink, got my coffee, filled my birdfeeders, watched my backyard bunny hopping around. It was a good morning. 

And then I started to cry. 

I don't know why. I hadn't had a sudden memory or thought, I hadn't suddenly remembered some task I didn't know how to do, or some new bureaucratic snag to add to my to-do list. I just, completely out of the blue, felt so very sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. 

Sometimes grief works that way. Sometimes there's something specific that sets you off, but sometimes it's really nothing. Or maybe it's really everything. 

I've been looking forward to school starting next week, giving the kids a schedule, a structure, a routine, things to do all day instead of just hanging around at loose ends. I've been counting the days since my husband's death, waiting for his final death certificate to arrive so I can start dealing with all the red tape, making calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments. 45 days passed. 60 days passed. I was supposed to have gotten it in "45 to 60 days." I'm worried that the "deadline" has passed and I'm still waiting. I'm looking ahead to the change of weather, knowing there will be a whole new round of things to do around the house to prepare for the cold weather: close the pool, turn off the outside spigots and irrigation system, arrange for snowplowing services, make sure the furnace is working. 

It's a lot. It's...everything. It's not just one thing that sets me off, it's the weight of everything.  

I keep using the phrase "eating the elephant" to explain how I'm trying to deal with things. You know, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." Do just one task, solve just one problem, do just one thing. But every now and then, you feel so full that you're sick to your stomach, and then you look up, and there's still an awful lot of elephant there. 

I wish I had some lovely resolution to close with, some words of wisdom to explain that now I'm okay and things are fine and everything is just ducky. 

But I'm not okay, things aren't fine, and everything is definitely not ducky. I'm still sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. I'm still terrified of how much elephant I have left to deal with. I'm still frustrated and furious at the bureaucracy I have to untangle. I'm still worried about how I'll deal with everything. Yes, I have lots of help and support, but it still falls on me, and it sucks. 

This feeling will pass at some point, I'm sure, or at least it will lessen. But right now, it totally sucks. And I hate it. 

But I'm going to let myself wallow for now, because it's okay to do that. Wallowing is cathartic. Wallowing for a moment will eventually make me feel better. The need to wallow will pass. It's nothing. But right now, it's also everything. 

When Grief Smacks You in the Face

The funny thing about grief is the way it sneaks up on you. You think that you're starting to manage it, that your emotions are on an even keel, that you're prepared for the difficult moments, but then some unexpected tiny detail smacks you in the face, and POW! The grief is back in full force. 

It might be a whiff of his sweaty shirt that didn't make it into the laundry yet. 

It might be drinking his favorite cocktail and suddenly being transported back to the taste of gin on his lips when he kissed you.

It might be finding a forgotten wedding photo. 

It might be going to a restaurant you haven't been to in a while and the waitress asks about him. 

It be getting a haircut at a salon instead of at Supercuts and remembering how excited he was when you finally treated yourself a little. 

It might be driving your kids to Scout camp by yourself instead of with him. 

It might be scanning your texts to find some important bit of information and instead finding a flirty text exchange with him.

It might be your car needing an oil change and realizing you have to do it yourself this time.  

It might be putting on a dress that he bought for you. 

It might be putting on a dress and realizing that he always zipped it up for you because you can't reach the last bit by yourself. 

It might be struggling to open a jar and not being able to knock in his office door and say, "Oh, strong husband, I need you..."

It might be seeing an ad for a singing group you both love playing at a nearby venue and realizing that it wouldn't be fun to go to without him. 

It might be rolling over in bed and realizing the other side is empty. 

It might be cooking to the music of Michael Buble and not having a dance partner and a sous chef. 

It might be getting your own coffee in the morning instead of having him bring it to you in bed. 

It might be coming across a silly meme and starting to forward it to him before you remember. 

It might be having to make a decision and wanting to run it by someone but no-one is there. 

It might be watching the final episode of a show you were binge-watching together. 

It might be seeing your children be mature and brave and kind and wise and wonderful and wanting to share that parental pride. 

It might be mastering a skill you never thought you would and thinking how proud (but not surprised) he would be. 

It might be any one of a thousand things that you'd done as a team for the past couple of decades and now you're doing it alone. 

It might be nothing at all, except that suddenly you are struck by the deepest pain and sense of loss that you can possibly imagine, and you don't know how you can possibly go on, and yet you do, because you have to. Because your children need you. Because he would want you to. Because quitting is not an option. 

Emotions are complicated. They change constantly, they grow and shrink and rise and fall. There is love, there is guilt, there is pain, there is anger, there is hope, there is emptiness. They are all there all at once, and they are painful and overwhelming and deep and comforting and agonizing. They are cathartic and they are cleansing and they are hurtful and they are powerful. And they are confusing. 

I keep thinking of a scene from the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, an episode called "The Body." When Buffy's mom dies unexpectedly (from natural causes, a rarity on the show), each character deals with it differently. But one of the characters, a former immortal demon who has become human, gives a heart-wrenching speech as she struggles to understand the concept of death. 

Here is some of what she says: "I don't understand how this all happens, how we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's - there's just a body. And I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead any more. It's stupid....And no one will explain to me why." 

And that's the really painful part: not knowing why. Why did God choose to end his life now? Why do cruel, hateful people live long lives but the life of someone wonderful and generous and kind and loving and giving, someone who makes the world a better place just by being in it, is cut short? I don't understand. No one will explain to me why. 

The only way I can cope by relying on my faith. I am comforted by Isaiah 57:1-2, which says (emphasis mine), "The righteous man perishes, and no one lays it to heart; devout men are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous man is taken away from calamity; he enters into peace; they rest in their beds who walk in their uprightness." 

No one understands death. But we have to accept it, because it is part of life. Every life. This is not the first death I've had to deal with, and it will likely not be the last. But it is the hardest. And the most incomprehensible. And the path of grief I travel will be the most tangled, the most laden with unexpected blows and emotional regressions and dead ends and u-turns and detours. And grief will continue to smack me in the face. But I will go on. Because I don't need to understand, I simply need to trust. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6)

When "We" Becomes "Me"

Lately I find myself constantly having to correct myself. "He is" becomes "he was," "he does" becomes "he did," "he always" becomes "he used to," "our" becomes "my," "party of four" becomes "party of three." I start to set the table with four place settings and I have to take one away. I get out four dinner rolls and I have to put one back. I start to check the box for "married" and have to erase it and check the box for "widowed," or worse, "single." "We" has become "me."

I'm not ready to be a "me" again. I liked being a "we." I liked the shared enjoyment and responsibilities of "our" house, "our" pool, "our" cars, "our" travel plans, "our" social events. I liked being a parent to "our" kids, not just "my" kids. I liked being part of a team when making decisions, of having a built-in sanity check, an automatic second opinion. I need a yang to my yin. 

The thing is, my husband and I were very complementary in a lot of ways. He was friendly and outgoing, sometimes to the point of being overbearing, and I am shy and introverted, sometimes to the point of being reclusive. He pushed me into the world of people, and I reined him in when he got pushy. I built up funds by scrimping and saving what little I made; he built them up by spending a lot but earning more. Between the two of us, we struck a healthier financial balance than either one of us did alone. He tended to act without thinking things through, and I leaned toward overthinking everything. The pair of us planning together led to wiser decisions than working individually. "We" had more spontaneity than "me" but more thoughtfulness than "he." I learned to manage technology (somewhat) because of him. He learned to appreciate wildlife (somewhat) because of me. He barked at the kids when they needed it and I hugged them when they needed it. When I barked it was serious and when he hugged it was special. We balanced each other out.  

But now I've lost that balance. No wonder I feel like I'm careening through life without much control right now. I don't have that stabilizing influence. Like a boat without a keel, there's nothing to keep me upright when the wind blows or the waves strike. 

The good thing is that I know I've absorbed so much of his influence over the years that in some ways he's still beside me. "What would he do?" is a question I can sometimes answer, although it's a lot harder to follow through on without him here. It's not automatic or instinctual, like it was with him, but it's there. And thinking about it helps to keep him with me. My "me" has taken on some of our "we." 

I can't do it alone. But I'm never really alone, because he will always be in my heart. So maybe my part of "us" can do it, even when "I" can't. Because "we" has become a part of "me." Like it says in the song "For Good" from Wicked:

So much of me is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.

His handprint will always be there. 

I Have Confidence

You've all seen the film version of The Sound of Music, right? Well, if you've also seen the stage version, you'll know there are some significant differences between the two. Among those differences are songs that were cut or added. Two of the songs that were cut for the film, "How Can Love Survive?" and "There's No Way to Stop It" were sung by Max and Elsa. Although these cuts lose some of the character development for both characters, with an original run time of three hours, the film was simply too long to include everything in the original score. A song that was cut but replaced with another was "An Ordinary Couple," sung by Maria and Captain von Trapp in the stage show, which looks forward to their life together, which was replaced with "Something Good," also sung by Maria and the Captain, but which looks back on what in their lives led them to this point. A subtle switch, but one which works well. But the added song which makes the most difference, in my humble opinion, is "I Have Confidence," sung by Maria as she leaves the abbey and heads for the von Trapp house. 

One of the reasons that the song works so well in the film, in a way it could never have done on stage, is its wonderful visual and lyrical parallels between the changing scenery and Maria's changing attitude. As she travels from the abbey to the city to the von Trapp mansion, Maria's physical and emotional bearing changes. When she leaves her beloved abbey, she is unsure of herself, even frightened, with slumped shoulders and slow steps. As she nears the less familiar city, she talks herself into having courage, her hesitant steps becoming faster and surer, her chin held higher. As she approaches the never-before-seen, imposing von Trapp mansion, she pauses to steel herself, uttering in a small voice the simple prayer, "Oh, help," in front of the gates before squaring her shoulders and pushing open the heavy gate to the unfamiliar and intimidating surroundings, her internal resolve eminently clear.  She is obviously choosing to have confidence. [Fun fact: In one take, Andrews stumbled as she marched toward the mansion, and the director found it charmingly Maria-like and opted to use that take in the film.]

Confidence is something that some people have naturally. I am not one of those people. I would argue that one of my greatest character failings is a complete lack of confidence in myself. I don't know why this is; I was raised in a healthy family that praised my accomplishments and encouraged me when I struggled. I did well in school and achieved a reasonable measure of success in most things I tried. And yet, I always had a feeling that it wasn't good enough. Lack of confidence is a large part of my social anxiety: I don't have confidence that I'll know the answers, that I'll read the social cues, that I'll do or say or wear the right thing. 

But as a now-single parent, I have no choice but to have confidence. Fortunately, confidence is not only  naturally-occurring, it can be chosen. In the same way that Maria talked herself into having confidence, I can do the same. 

When you think about it, Maria was suddenly thrown into a situation that she was in no way qualified to manage. She had never been a governess; she had no formal training in teaching or child psychology; having grown up in an abbey, she had no idea how to behave in a wealthy, upper class household. Of course she felt overwhelmed and out of her league. She had no reason to have confidence. But she chose to. Look at the lyrics:

What will this day be like? I wonder. What will my future be? I wonder.

It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free!

My heart should be wildly rejoicing. Oh, what's the matter with me?

"What's the matter with me?" is a question I ask myself on a regular basis. "I should be able to do this. What's the matter with me?" "Normal adults are not bothered by that. What's the matter with me?" "This shouldn't be so hard. What's the matter with me?" I get you, Maria. I totally get you. 

I've always longed for adventure, to do the things I've never dared.

Now here I'm facing adventure. Then why am I so scared?

A captain with seven children. What's so fearsome about that?

Girl, I only have two and I'm terrified. 

Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries. If I don't, I just know I'll turn back!

Turning back isn't a choice I have. There is no "back." I have to find a way to stop these doubts and worries, because I can't turn back. I HAVE to choose confidence, because it's the only option. 

I must dream of the things I am seeking. I am seeking the courage I lack.

The courage to serve them with reliance, face my mistakes without defiance,

Show them I'm worthy, and while I show them I'll show me!

That's really what it comes down to: I rarely need to prove myself to other people, I mainly need to prove myself to myself. I need to show ME. 

So let them bring on all their problems. I'll do better than my best.

I have confidence they'll put me to the test!

But I'll make them see I have confidence in me.

Somehow I will impress them. I will be firm, but kind.

And all those children - heaven bless them -

They will look up to me and mind me!

I don't know about doing better than my best - I don't actually have access to "my best" at this point in time - but I'll do the best I can. I'm fortunate that my children do seem to look up to me and mind me (for the most part, anyway). 

With each step I am more certain everything will turn out fine.

I have confidence the world can all be mine!

They'll have to agree I have confidence in me.

I keep talking about "eating the elephant" and "taking baby steps." Everything I do accomplish gives me an added confidence that I can do this, I can manage our lives, I can keep going. And I can show my children that they can do the same. I can be an example of choosing confidence. 

I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain,

I have confidence that spring will come again!

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

I look to my many widowed friends and acquaintances to give me confidence that spring will come again. Now is my winter, when all looks bleak and cold, when it feels like the sun will never return, the birds will never sing again, the flowers will never peek their green shoots up through the ground. And yet, I know that spring is coming. It may be long months away, there may be storms between now and then, I may find myself digging out from under a proverbial snowbank now and then, but spring WILL come. 

Strength doesn't lie in numbers, strength doesn't lie in wealth.

Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers.

When you wake up, wake up! It's healthy!

I'm not so much with the peaceful slumbers these days, but I can certainly take the advice "When you wake up, wake up!" I can choose to get out of bed in the morning, even when I'd rather stay huddled under the blankets and ignore the world around me. I can get up and do something, even if it's scary, even if it's small, even if it's only one of the seemingly hundreds of things that needs doing. It's the healthy thing to do. And it builds confidence.  

All I trust I leave my heart to, all I trust becomes my own!

I have confidence in confidence alone.

Besides, which you see I have confidence in me!

Maria doesn't state it here, but the phrase "All I trust I leave my heart to," coming from a devout young woman who grew up in a nunnery and plans to become a nun, has a lot of implications that I can identify with. As a Christian, "all I trust" is God Himself. Psalm 56:3 says, "When I am afraid, I will trust in You." That is how I can choose to have confidence. I don't have to have "confidence in me," I can have confidence in Christ in me. Psalm 71:5 says, "For you have been my hope, Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth." 2 Corinthians 3:4-5 says, "Such confidence we have through Christ before God. Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God." Phew, not only do I not have to come up with confidence in myself, I don't even have to be the source of my own competence. Which is good, because I've been feeling very incompetent lately. Instead, I will choose to trust in the Lord. Proverbs 3:5-6 says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."

I can use some straightening of the tangled paths I see ahead of me. So I choose to trust, and I choose to have confidence. 

"I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me." - Philippians 4:13

Even have confidence in myself. 

Milestones, Yardstones, Millimeterstones

There are some milestones of grief and widowhood that I'm sure I will reach eventually. The first day I get through without crying, without thinking of Herb, without discovering something around the house I don't know how to manage. The settlement of his estate. Completing a tax return. Selling the car. Getting a job. Teaching my son to drive. 

But every one of these is still weeks, months, or even years away. So I need to set my sights on something closer, something smaller, something I can achieve in the nearer future. Let's call it a "yardstone". Mastering the pool is an example of what I would consider a yardstone. Buying a lawn mower and figuring out how to use it was a yardstone. Looking ahead, I would say that upcoming yardstones might be taking his name off our bank accounts, applying for COBRA coverage. taking down the lights along the eaves, transferring our mortgage, getting all the utilities in my name. A little more doable, but still somewhat significant. Which means also a little intimidating.

Right now, what is making me feel like I'm making progress is more like "millimeterstones." Cooking a meal from scratch. Getting through church needing only one Kleenex instead of 5 or 6. Cleaning the bathrooms. Going to the grocery store. Some days, just getting out of bed or taking a shower or throwing in a load of laundry is an accomplishment worthy of being called a millimeterstone. 

One of the most unexpected struggles of grief is simply exhaustion, both physical and emotional. My mind is constantly racing, running a daily mental marathon. That's exhausting. My body is constantly physically tense. That's exhausting. Making all the needed phone calls sends a rush of adrenaline to my anxious heart. That's exhausting. I struggle to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. That's exhausting. I'm constantly trying to keep a list of short- and long-term tasks and prioritize them appropriately. That's exhausting. I'm concerned about my kids and making sure they're okay and getting all the support they need. That's exhausting. I'm trying to manage the day-to-day schedule of three people and making sure they get to wherever they need to be at the appropriate time. That's exhausting. When I look at my to-do list, it seems to be endless. That's exhausting. 

The best solution for that exhaustion is looking for a way to feel like I am making progress, however slowly. And right now, I'm measuring that progress in millimeterstones. At some point, I'll move up to yardstones, probably scattered in among the millimeterstones. At some even further point, I'll start to hit an occasional milestone or two. But that's all quite some time away. So for now, I'll be satisfied with hitting a single millimeter stone a day. Maybe two or even three on a good day. 

Eventually those little millimeters will add up to a yard. And the yard will add up to a mile. And the miles will add up to relief, and wholeness, and peace. But until then, I'll keep working to achieve those millimeterstones.

Like posting a blog entry. 

*Millimeterstone Achieved*

Don't Make Me Say It

One of the worst parts of losing a spouse is having to say the words, over and over, "He died." Or at least, "He passed," or "He's gone," or whatever euphemism you choose. But you have to say it. Out loud. A lot. 

The first, and worst, is when you first find out yourself. You have to make calls to let everyone else know. In my case, his daughter, his sister, my sister, his best friend, my pastor, my cousin, a couple of close friends. Maybe it's helpful to have to say it out loud, to let it become real in your mind. But it's like being caught in a nightmare, an echo chamber of your own voice repeating the nightmare. 

And then, when you start the work of untangling his affairs, you have to say it over and over again, but this time to strangers who may or may not be sympathetic: his employer, the kids' schools, the life insurance company, the car insurance company, the DMV, the bank, your financial planner, the credit card companies, social security, the electric company, the propane company, the irrigation company, the housecleaners, the landscaper, the pool company, the plumber, the electrician, an attorney, his doctor, your doctor, the kids' doctors... It feels endless. 

But worse than that, it feels real. It feels final. It feels. 

If feels like a dagger, not just in your heart, but in your soul. 

It is, for the time being, the definition of who you are. Most phone calls or conversations with strangers begin by identifying yourself: Hi, it's me. Hi, I'm your customer. Hi, this is MyName. But now, your whole identify is wrapped up in your loss: Hi, I've lost a spouse. Hi, I'm a widow. Hi, my husband is gone. Hi, I'm calling because the person I loved more than life itself isn't here any more. Is it any wonder that I dread making phone calls, or that most of my phone calls begin with me in tears and choked up? 

On several occasions of late, I've felt the need to reassure friends that I truly don't cry all the time. But I do often cry when I'm talking to people, because I do have to say the words. It's like I can push the pain to the side for a little while, I can compartmentalize the grief while I'm managing some task, but when I have to put it into words, all the pain and grief come bubbling back to the surface. 

So if you see me and I'm not up for talking, please understand that sometimes talking is hard. Sometimes it's too much. Because even when I don't have to say the words, they're always there as subtext. I say, "I'm doing okay," but I mean, "I'm doing okay even though my husband is dead." I say, "I need to close this account," but I mean, "I have to deal with this alone now because I'm a widow." I say, "I could use some help with this," but I mean, "My husband isn't here to do this any more." I say, "I need to update this information," but I mean, "The person you have on file is gone, and he's not coming back." 

Please don't make me say it. 

Finding the Islands

The days and weeks (and, let's face it, the months and probably the years) following the loss of a spouse are like being caught in a storm at sea: everything is swirling around you, and you're caught in an eddy that keeps pulling you in opposite directions while somehow keeping you from making any progress. It's overwhelming, it's terrifying, and it's exhausting. The only way to survive is to find a moment to rest, to catch your breath, to look around you and make a plan. And the only way to do that is to find an island, something solid to grab onto for a moment to steady yourself. 

Different people find different islands. One of my islands is writing out my thoughts and feelings, putting them down in black and white so I can understand them - and more importantly, manage them. For other people, therapy might serve a similar purpose. Identifying your feelings can be an island. 

Another island for me is quiet. I am often doing work with my hands that doesn't take much conscious thought (cleaning, sewing, cooking), so I usually have music or a podcast or an audiobook or a TV show running in the background. Between that and having two teenagers around the house for the summer, chatting with friends, bickering with each other, or talking back to video games, silence is a rarity in my house. But the hour or two when I'm awake but before the kids get up, the world is quiet except for the birds chirping and the occasional barking of a dog, crowing of a rooster, or rumble of a passing truck. It becomes an island of peace before I am swept back into the maelstrom of life. 

One of my less healthy islands is comfort food. A butter pecan iced coffee from Dunk's, a piece of buttered toast, a cookie, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, ice cream with hot fudge sauce, a good cup of coffee, a favorite cocktail. As Ina Garten says, "You can be miserable before you eat a cookie and you can be miserable after you eat a cookie, but you can't be miserable while you're eating a cookie." This is true of a lot of foods. Immersing yourself in the very physical act of eating something enjoyable brings a very physical pleasure that overrides any emotional pain you are experiencing, if only for a few moments. That's an island. 

Hugging my kids, or a friend, is an island. 

Snuggling one of my cats is an island. 

Prayer is an island. 

Watching the birds and wildlife in my back yard is an island. 

Pulling weeds in my garden is an island. 

Listening to Chopin is an island. 

Baking a loaf of bread is an island, even though I couldn't bring myself to take off my wedding rings as I usually do when I knead dough. That loaf might have had a little added salt, but even as I cried I was on an island. 

Sometimes the island is the sense of relief I get after I do a task I'm dreading or fearing, like when I got a lesson on pool maintenance that turned out to be less intimidating and complicated than I had feared. 

Happy memories are an island. Looking through photographs and videos, reading reminiscences sent by friends, smells and sights and sounds that remind me of the past have become an island. 

Some islands you just stumble on unexpectedly, like a person on the other end of the phone who gives you compassion and grace when you were expecting hassles and red tape. 

Tears can be an island. I spend a lot of time trying to pull myself together so I can make a phone call, be with my kids, run an errand, deal with daily life. But I need to cry, so I find time to do it. For some reason, the car has become my "crying zone." When I am alone in the car, I let the tears pour down my face. I'm not crying over a specific issue or situation or thought, it's just a release of the built-up tension and anxiety and fear of the unknown. The relief I experience from letting myself go is very much an island.

Another way of looking at it is that anything that brings a moment of joy, however small, is an island. I recently saw this poster on Facebook, and I find it to be completely true: Micro joys are how we survive macro grief. 

There is no joy great enough to counteract the load of grief on my heart right now. But the small joys help to chip away at it, to give me a moment, if not exactly of forgetting, of balancing the grief. When I feel like I'm teetering on the precipice of falling back into the storm, every tiny moment of joy tugs me back from the brink. I'm still on the edge, my footing is still not secure, but at least I'm not falling. At least I can catch my breath before fighting the next fight. 

I just need to keep finding the islands. 

It is the Worst of Clubs, It is the Best of Clubs

Shortly after Herb passed away, an acquaintance who had been widowed a number of years earlier gave me a hug and told me, "It's the shittiest club ever, but we're here for each other." That was my welcome to the (not-so-wonderful) world of widowhood. 

I'm not big on joining groups of strangers, especially at the most emotionally vulnerable period of my life, so I don't think I'll be signing up for "Parents Without Partners" or a grief support group or a formal widows' organization, but being a part of this quiet network has been reassuring. There are a number of women in my life that I knew had been widowed, but I have since been approached by a number of others that I had no idea had been through what I'm going through. Even without being ready yet to talk about it extensively, it is reassuring just seeing other women who have been through this ordeal and come out on the other side, if not exactly unscathed or unscarred, at least surviving and even thriving. 

It give me hope.

It gives me resources.

It gives me solidarity. 

It gives me a lifeline. 

As incredible as the support has been from family and friends, there's something special about support from someone who's been where you are, someone who gets it. No one goes through exactly the same grief journey, but there are commonalities that go beyond words. A hug from someone who can sympathize is wonderful, but a hug from someone who can empathize goes beyond words, beyond silence. It says, "Courage, sister." It says, "I have been where you are." It says, "I'm okay and you will be, too." It says, "I'll be here when you're ready." It says, "It's okay that you don't know what you need." It says, "It's okay to be not okay." It says, "You are not alone."

It is the shittiest club ever, but it is a sisterhood. 

Courage, sister. 

Technology is a Curse - But Also a Gift

My husband was always at the cutting edge of every kind of technology, so it is no surprise that we have a "Smart" house, one that is filled with all kinds of devices that do things for us. We have an Alexa in nearly every room that can tell us the time and date, set timers and alarms and reminders, look up trivia, give us a weather report, order items on line, compile grocery lists, play music, find recipes, and on and on. I can control the family room television with my voice. I can control many of the lights with my voice, not just on and off but dimmers and colors. Our pool has an "Intellicenter" control system which is supposed to make managing the pool chemistry simpler (spoiler alert: it does not). Our garage doors close automatically at 9pm if we accidentally leave them open. Our outside motion sensors send an alert to our phones if they go off in the middle of the night in case there's an intruder (spoiler alert: it's not; it's either a spider or a raccoon). Our thermostats are programmable. We have phone apps that can control the pool slide, the furnace, the Roomba vacuum, the garage lights, the outdoor lights, the irrigation system, our finances, our lives. 

He loved it. 

I do not. Because I don't get it. I never had to get it. I was happy to let him play with all his devices and controls. But now it's driving me crazy because I have no choice but to figure it all out. I have to access his online banking to make sure the bills are paid. I have to figure out the thermostats so we don't either swelter to death or pay a fortune in unneeded air conditioning. I have to master the pool controls so the pool stays safe. I have to figure out his Alexa programming so the alarm in my bedroom doesn't continue to go off (loudly) at 6:30 every morning. I have to figure out what bills are paid automatically and which ones I need to manage manually. I'd love to figure out how he made the outside speaker connect to the Alexa to play music by the pool. I'd love to know how to override the irrigation "skip because rain is predicted" when those thunderstorms pass us by yet again. It's like everything I need to do around the house involves mastering yet another piece of technology. 

It makes me want to curse technology. 

But then I think back to when my dad died, and my mom didn't change the outgoing message on their answering machine (remember those?) because that was the only record she had of Dad's voice. They didn't have any home movies where she could hear or watch him as she remembered him. Their photos were in scrapbooks or boxes - or, in many cases, in the carousel of a dusty slide projector - that she would have to dig out if she wanted to see his picture. 

I, on the other hand, am surrounded by many reminders of him. I can hear his voice in the beautiful tribute video posted by our friends at Reagle. I can pull up literally thousands of photos and videos of our many travel adventures in mere seconds in my Google photo albums, on Facebook, on my phone, and yes, on our Alexa devices. I don't have to just remember the time he taught Ryan how to saber champagne, I have a video of it. I don't have to just picture our honeymoon adventures in my mind's eye, I have an online album of photos. I don't have to just tell my kids how much their dad adored them, I have piles of visual evidence at my fingertips. 

And even beyond photos and videos, I can go into his email and search by keyword for information on bills, home maintenance resources, insurance, people I need to connect with. I might be able to complete some paperwork online that I would otherwise have to take care of in person at a remote office. I was able to look up a lot of the details that I'll need in the coming weeks to deal with his estate, details I would have a hard time finding in physical files and records. 

So as much as technology is complicating my life right now, it is also bringing me solace. And the complications will ease up at some point, but the solace will go on. For me, for my children, for our family, and for all those for whom Herb's memory brings a smile. Technology may bring me to tears, but I will be smiling through those tears. And at some point, the tears will fade, but the smile will always remain. 

Mine, and his. 

What I Mean When I Say, "I'm OK"

A question I get asked a lot these days is, "How are you doing?" It's a hard question to answer. And the answer changes not only day to day, but minute to minute. My usual answer is something like, "We're hanging in there," or "We're getting through." But more often than not, I'll just say, "I'm OK."

"I'm OK" can mean a lot of different things. It nearly always means, "I got out of bed this morning, I've showered and brushed my teeth within the last 36 hours or so, I've eaten something vaguely nutritious in the past 12 hours, everyone in the house has at least some clean clothes, I've been making an effort to get some sleep, the bathrooms are reasonably clean, I've paid all the bills that need to be paid, and the kids have been fed." But in addition to that, it can mean a lot of other things. 

It might mean that I saw two different people carrying bouquets of flowers in the parking lot of the grocery store and I realized that I will never again get flowers from my husband so I sat in the car and cried for 10 minutes, but then I pulled myself together and drove home to my kids. 

It might mean that I made a phone call I'd been dreading and I didn't have the right information so now I have to call back and I might need to go throw up before I do it, but I'll do it. 

It might mean that I just realized I'd gone 12 hours without crying and I was so proud of myself that I cried. Damn it. 

It might mean that I sucked it up and asked a friend for help even though I thought I should be able to do it myself. 

It might mean that I feel like I'm a hot mess but my kids seem to be doing okay and that makes me okay, too. 

It might mean that I won a small victory today, like mowing the lawn or backing the car into the garage or googling a home repair video or figuring out how to turn on the pool slide. 

It might mean that I had a hard day and put off doing the five important things I was supposed to do but the world did not come to an end. 

It might mean that a friend called or sent a note just when I needed it. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to the grocery store, but I did anyway. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to grocery store, so I didn't. And no one has starved yet. 

It might mean that I woke up this morning and thought, "I can't do this." And then I cried for a while. And then I got up, and I did it. 

It might mean that I'm feeling totally overwhelmed but I'm still putting one foot in front of the other, which is its own victory. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I have faith that I'll be okay at some point. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I'm not ready to admit it or ask for help, but I'm glad to know that you're there when I am ready. 

It always means, "I don't need an intervention right now, but thanks for checking."

Especially that last part. 

I'm OK. Thanks for checking. 

Human Again, Bloomin' Again

My life with Herb was always filled with Broadway references. If he drove me crazy, I'd quote, "You could die from such a man!" from Fiddler on the Roof. The first nice day in spring always made him sing, "Someone oughta open up a window," from 1776. And any time one of us did some hard work or got sweaty or dirty for whatever reason, the ensuing shower would be followed by a chorus of "Human again, I feel human again," from Beauty and the Beast. 

After a month of walking around in a kind of daze, I am finally having moments of feeling "human again." I feel like I am slowly regaining control of my life, or at least of tiny bits and pieces of it. One day, one small moment. A few days later, a few small moments. 

This morning as I was watching my birdfeeders and drinking a cup of coffee, I noticed my Rose of Sharon bush. (There's a connection here, I promise.) When we moved into the house, this bush was a gorgeous but somewhat overgrown accent next to the swimming pool. When we had to demolish and rebuild the pool, we had it dug up, wrapped the root ball in burlap, tucked it into the woods in the back yard, and hoped for the best. When the pool was finally finished, after nearly a year of not being in the ground, we replanted it and again, hoped for the best. Somewhat surprisingly, it recovered its greenery very quickly, but that first year we only got a single bloom, and quite late in the season. We had our landscapers prune it back and again hoped for the best. The next season it also bloomed quite late, but there were a few more blossoms. I got rid of some more dead wood and trimmed it back just a bit more, and this year it seemed to be following the same pattern of very late blooming and only a blossom or two. In fact, a month ago, when Herb passed away, there was not a single blossom or even bud to be seen. 

But just last week, I noticed that one huge blossom had appeared. And a few days ago I saw one or two more starting to open. Now, as of this morning, there are at least a dozen vivid pink blooms tucked among the lush green foliage. 

I feel like this is a parallel to where I am right now. It's only been in the past few days that I'm starting to see peeks of hope, a few "blossoms" of joy that my heart can accept. I can see a few more on the horizon, not quite here yet, but ready to open up soon. Maybe not in a week, maybe not in a month, maybe not in six months, maybe not even in a year. But after a few seasons, I'll bloom again. It's been a rough season, but my roots are deep. And I am being carefully tended. 

 I will bloom again.