I'm writing this from a hospital bed after back surgery. My second in 10 months. Since Brian died I have had three surgeries and I don't know how many eye injections. None of these procedures/surgeries have been awful, what has been awful is the fact that Brian hasn't been here with me. Each time I get disturbing news from a doctor, I still turn to look for him. He who was always there to hold my hand, give me a hug, let me know that everything was going to be OK and that we would deal with it together. But that's not how life works.
I'll never forget that awful, empty, crushing pain when the doctor told me that Brian was dying. I could hold his hand, hug him, be there to deal with it together, but I couldn't do anything to make things alright. Three and a half months later, he died in my arms.
I'm not going to die for a long time. Despite some serious medical issues, I'm pretty healthy. And somehow I have to learn to manage my health and my life alone. I'm going to go home later today, and I'm going to be alone. I have friends that will visit and help, I have a neighbor who will walk Lola and feed Tater, I have lots of love and blessings, but Brian, my love, my strength, my partner in life is gone. That hurts more than the back and leg pain, more than the eye pain, more than the incision pain.
When we married it was forever; until death do we part. Who knew that death would come for Brian when he was just 48? Who knew that life could be so cruel? That the love of my life would be with me for only 9 short years?
So I'm going home, but that just means I'm going back to my house. Brian and I together made it a home. Brian's love made everything OK. And while Brian and I never stopped loving each other, he stopped breathing. His big beautiful heart stopped beating. He can't help me make everything OK anymore. I miss him. I miss him more than I can find words to express.
There is no home without Brian.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
Pain, Fear, and Quality of Life
Today I saw the doctor and had another injection in my eye. I've lost count of how many injections I've had - enough to know that the thought of it is so much worse than the reality. Enough to know that it might be uncomfortable, but it won't hurt. Enough to know that it will bring me quick but temporary relief from my pain. Enough that it should feel routine, but injection days still bring me to tears. Not from pain or fear, but from the sadness of knowing that Brian isn't there with me. He came to my appointments with me. He was always in the room when I had the injections. And he was always - even when horrible Dr. Schoch didn't sufficiently numb my eye causing me pain and permanent damage - a calming living presence letting me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything would be OK.
I don't know that anymore. Today I had an injection. Tomorrow morning have another discectomy. Dr. Prall agrees with me that both my eye and my back problems probably stem from an auto-immune condition causing my body to attack the collagen in my retina and spinal disks. My initial relief that a doctor finally listened to me and confirmed my suspicion was quickly followed by incredible fear.
We've been trying to manage this problem for for almost three and a half years. If the Humira doesn't control it, I don't know what medical options remain. With my eye, I've already had cataract surgery, so if we can't control the edema, I can get steroid injections periodically to reduce the swelling and pain. What are the options for my back?
This is my second discectomy on the same disc in less than ten months. If the Humira isn't effective, the disc or others can bulge again. The pain has been unbearable - even though many people, including those closest to me, think that I have no tolerance for pain and like to be a drama queen. The incision pain from the surgery will be horrible for a few days, then I'll slowly recover and gain strength. I'll likely miss 6-8 weeks of work and income. I need to go to rehab because I can't come home alone. Despite my pain I had to beg doctors for a quick surgery, deal with insurance, research recovery options, and make plans for myself and my pets because I'm alone - without Brian I have no advocate. And though it wasn't easy, I did it, and it will be fine. But what if there is a next time? I'm terrified to even think about it! If the Humira doesn't work, will I be facing another back surgery next year?
I know that many people would tell me to relax and not worry until it happens, but how do I do that? This type of autoimmune condition has no cure. If the drugs can't get me and keep me in remission, these problems will repeat, and I don't know what I will do. This has been my biggest fear since Brian died - facing the very real risk that I might be visually impaired or compromised in terms of mobility, alone, and in severe pain.
What will I do? Where will I end up? How will I live, and what kind of quality of life will I have? Maybe I shouldn't let my mind wander. But part of surviving, part of managing and taking control is having a plan. I don't know how to plan for a future of extreme pain and limited ability. I don't know how to face those possibilities alone. I don't know that I want to face those possibilities at all.
I am terrified and I feel alone. Brian would tell me to be strong and to ask for help, and I do, but Brian also believed that quality of life was important. Alone, frightened, in pain - what kind if quality is that?
I wish he was here to help me sort through these thought and fears. I'm afraid to discuss it with anyone, and I am terrified.
I don't know that anymore. Today I had an injection. Tomorrow morning have another discectomy. Dr. Prall agrees with me that both my eye and my back problems probably stem from an auto-immune condition causing my body to attack the collagen in my retina and spinal disks. My initial relief that a doctor finally listened to me and confirmed my suspicion was quickly followed by incredible fear.
We've been trying to manage this problem for for almost three and a half years. If the Humira doesn't control it, I don't know what medical options remain. With my eye, I've already had cataract surgery, so if we can't control the edema, I can get steroid injections periodically to reduce the swelling and pain. What are the options for my back?
This is my second discectomy on the same disc in less than ten months. If the Humira isn't effective, the disc or others can bulge again. The pain has been unbearable - even though many people, including those closest to me, think that I have no tolerance for pain and like to be a drama queen. The incision pain from the surgery will be horrible for a few days, then I'll slowly recover and gain strength. I'll likely miss 6-8 weeks of work and income. I need to go to rehab because I can't come home alone. Despite my pain I had to beg doctors for a quick surgery, deal with insurance, research recovery options, and make plans for myself and my pets because I'm alone - without Brian I have no advocate. And though it wasn't easy, I did it, and it will be fine. But what if there is a next time? I'm terrified to even think about it! If the Humira doesn't work, will I be facing another back surgery next year?
I know that many people would tell me to relax and not worry until it happens, but how do I do that? This type of autoimmune condition has no cure. If the drugs can't get me and keep me in remission, these problems will repeat, and I don't know what I will do. This has been my biggest fear since Brian died - facing the very real risk that I might be visually impaired or compromised in terms of mobility, alone, and in severe pain.
What will I do? Where will I end up? How will I live, and what kind of quality of life will I have? Maybe I shouldn't let my mind wander. But part of surviving, part of managing and taking control is having a plan. I don't know how to plan for a future of extreme pain and limited ability. I don't know how to face those possibilities alone. I don't know that I want to face those possibilities at all.
I am terrified and I feel alone. Brian would tell me to be strong and to ask for help, and I do, but Brian also believed that quality of life was important. Alone, frightened, in pain - what kind if quality is that?
I wish he was here to help me sort through these thought and fears. I'm afraid to discuss it with anyone, and I am terrified.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Slap in the Face
It has been over a year and four months since Brian died. Enough time for the jagged edges of that wound to scab over. Enough time to take off my wedding ring, his wedding ring, and my widow's ring. Enough time to move to reluctant acceptance. This is my life; I am a widow.
But the shock of aloneness doesn't stop reappearing with the painful surprise of a slap in the face. The realization that no matter what the circumstance, I have to face life alone. The understanding that no amount of love and friendship can fill the void left by Brian's death.
To Brian I was the most important person in the world, as he was to me. My needs were equally important to him, and vice versa. This isn't true about my parents, my sister, or anyone else. I never had to lean on Brian because he always, in good times and bad, lifted me up.
That's what love is. That's what our marriage was. We lived together as a unit -two individuals that acted as one. Always there for each other, always supporting each other, always considering the needs of the other perhaps before considering our own.
I miss that. I miss Brian's nurturing presence in my life. I miss having a partner in life. I miss being a partner in Brian's life.
Things have been extremely challenging lately. I'm in horrible pain and facing surgery - my third surgery in ten months. Chronic pain is exhausting and depressing, and I feel that I have been given a bit more than I can manage. The hardest part is facing it all alone. I have no advocate. I need argue with doctors and insurance companies. I need to make post-surgical arrangements. I need to learn to calm my own fears. I need to manage everyone around me who, with the very best of intentions, have shown that while they love me, they don't view me as strong or self sufficient. The well meaning but misguided actions of others have added insult to injury. I'm in horrible pain, I'm exhausted, I'm insulted, and I'm frightened. I'm facing my biggest fear - the fear of being alone and ill-equipped to deal with the challenges that life is throwing at me. A fear that Brian understood and erased just by being alive.
But the shock of aloneness doesn't stop reappearing with the painful surprise of a slap in the face. The realization that no matter what the circumstance, I have to face life alone. The understanding that no amount of love and friendship can fill the void left by Brian's death.
To Brian I was the most important person in the world, as he was to me. My needs were equally important to him, and vice versa. This isn't true about my parents, my sister, or anyone else. I never had to lean on Brian because he always, in good times and bad, lifted me up.
That's what love is. That's what our marriage was. We lived together as a unit -two individuals that acted as one. Always there for each other, always supporting each other, always considering the needs of the other perhaps before considering our own.
I miss that. I miss Brian's nurturing presence in my life. I miss having a partner in life. I miss being a partner in Brian's life.
Things have been extremely challenging lately. I'm in horrible pain and facing surgery - my third surgery in ten months. Chronic pain is exhausting and depressing, and I feel that I have been given a bit more than I can manage. The hardest part is facing it all alone. I have no advocate. I need argue with doctors and insurance companies. I need to make post-surgical arrangements. I need to learn to calm my own fears. I need to manage everyone around me who, with the very best of intentions, have shown that while they love me, they don't view me as strong or self sufficient. The well meaning but misguided actions of others have added insult to injury. I'm in horrible pain, I'm exhausted, I'm insulted, and I'm frightened. I'm facing my biggest fear - the fear of being alone and ill-equipped to deal with the challenges that life is throwing at me. A fear that Brian understood and erased just by being alive.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Life is Unfair
At a very young age, my parents instilled on me the message that life is not fair. I don't think that this is a lesson that needs to be taught, it is a lesson learned through experience.
I try not to wallow in self pity. I know how in so many ways I am truly lucky and blessed, and I am grateful for so much. Still, there are times when life seems to dole out more than my fair share of pain and grief, and while I always try to look at the positives, sometimes it becomes a real challenge.
When Brian died, everything changed. My priorities were changed, my view of myself changed, my hopes and dreams changed. Things that used to seem important just don't matter anymore. I no longer judge myself through the critical eyes of others - I judge myself with my own values and goals, and by how true I am to myself. I was forced to grow up, and while I'll probably always be one of the most emotional people that I know, I no longer view myself as emotionally immature. I am strong and resilient; a survivor.
Brian and I had an amazing and special relationship. We knew each other so well that we could care for and be there for each other in just the way we needed without conversation. He was my rock and my support, and the hardest thing about processing his death was that he wasn't there to support me in my grief. It sounds crazy, it sounds selfish, but it's true.
Since Brian has been gone, I've had to learn to manage on my own. Its not always easy - its lonely. I've had to assume all the responsibility of the household. I've had to rely on my own abilities and my ability to ask for help to accomplish anything. I have to find in myself the strength, support, and validation that he always provided. Its hard, but I'm managing with the help of my friends.
The times when it all becomes too challenging and too lonely is when I have to face my own pain, fear and uncertainty alone. Since Brian died I've had multiple health issues. My ongoing eye issues cause me chronic pain and leaves me with impaired vision. When the pain is bad, I feel so alone. My friends go above and beyond in helping me - showering me with love and care, driving me to doctor appointments, and more. I'm so fortunate, but at the end of the day, when I turn out the lights and climb into bed, the lonliness is overwhelming.
Last November I had spinal surgery. In April I had cataract surgery. I had love and support, and I came through, but I missed Brian so much.
Now my back is out again, and the pain is excruciating. I'm facing another back surgery and another long recovery. I know I'll be OK. I have a great surgeon, and he'll fix it. The surgery will work, the pain will stop and things will be better. I know this. But facing my third surgery in one year, dealing with pain that is much more extreme than last time, knowing what to expect from my upcoming recovery - its another slap in the face from loneliness. Its another reminder that I'm on my own, and it terrifies me.
I have friends who will help me. I even have someone special who makes it all bearable just by caring. I will get through it, my pain will go away, I'll heal and I'll be okay. But the terror of facing this alone is overwhelming. Living alone when I'm in extreme pain scares me. Being a burden to my friends and acquaintances embarrasses me. Appearing weak to others infuriates me. I can't just be.
I worry about what others think. I don't want to complain and appear weak or pathetic. I don't want to be seen as needy. I don't like to have to explain myself to others. But I am needy. I am in horrible pain, and it terrifies me to have to face it alone. I want to be seen as strong and independent, but right now I'm not. I want to have someone take care of me without viewing me as incapable. I want to turn out the light at night without worrying about what I'll do if the pain becomes too much to bear before the sun rises. I want to feel that safety that you have when you're in a strong partnership with the one you love.
I have friends. I have love. I have so many wonderful people and things in my life. But I have pain and I have fear, and when I'm alone and hurting, I can't help but feel that life is too unfair and that I just want a break from this pain, loss and fear.
I try not to wallow in self pity. I know how in so many ways I am truly lucky and blessed, and I am grateful for so much. Still, there are times when life seems to dole out more than my fair share of pain and grief, and while I always try to look at the positives, sometimes it becomes a real challenge.
When Brian died, everything changed. My priorities were changed, my view of myself changed, my hopes and dreams changed. Things that used to seem important just don't matter anymore. I no longer judge myself through the critical eyes of others - I judge myself with my own values and goals, and by how true I am to myself. I was forced to grow up, and while I'll probably always be one of the most emotional people that I know, I no longer view myself as emotionally immature. I am strong and resilient; a survivor.
Brian and I had an amazing and special relationship. We knew each other so well that we could care for and be there for each other in just the way we needed without conversation. He was my rock and my support, and the hardest thing about processing his death was that he wasn't there to support me in my grief. It sounds crazy, it sounds selfish, but it's true.
Since Brian has been gone, I've had to learn to manage on my own. Its not always easy - its lonely. I've had to assume all the responsibility of the household. I've had to rely on my own abilities and my ability to ask for help to accomplish anything. I have to find in myself the strength, support, and validation that he always provided. Its hard, but I'm managing with the help of my friends.
The times when it all becomes too challenging and too lonely is when I have to face my own pain, fear and uncertainty alone. Since Brian died I've had multiple health issues. My ongoing eye issues cause me chronic pain and leaves me with impaired vision. When the pain is bad, I feel so alone. My friends go above and beyond in helping me - showering me with love and care, driving me to doctor appointments, and more. I'm so fortunate, but at the end of the day, when I turn out the lights and climb into bed, the lonliness is overwhelming.
Last November I had spinal surgery. In April I had cataract surgery. I had love and support, and I came through, but I missed Brian so much.
Now my back is out again, and the pain is excruciating. I'm facing another back surgery and another long recovery. I know I'll be OK. I have a great surgeon, and he'll fix it. The surgery will work, the pain will stop and things will be better. I know this. But facing my third surgery in one year, dealing with pain that is much more extreme than last time, knowing what to expect from my upcoming recovery - its another slap in the face from loneliness. Its another reminder that I'm on my own, and it terrifies me.
I have friends who will help me. I even have someone special who makes it all bearable just by caring. I will get through it, my pain will go away, I'll heal and I'll be okay. But the terror of facing this alone is overwhelming. Living alone when I'm in extreme pain scares me. Being a burden to my friends and acquaintances embarrasses me. Appearing weak to others infuriates me. I can't just be.
I worry about what others think. I don't want to complain and appear weak or pathetic. I don't want to be seen as needy. I don't like to have to explain myself to others. But I am needy. I am in horrible pain, and it terrifies me to have to face it alone. I want to be seen as strong and independent, but right now I'm not. I want to have someone take care of me without viewing me as incapable. I want to turn out the light at night without worrying about what I'll do if the pain becomes too much to bear before the sun rises. I want to feel that safety that you have when you're in a strong partnership with the one you love.
I have friends. I have love. I have so many wonderful people and things in my life. But I have pain and I have fear, and when I'm alone and hurting, I can't help but feel that life is too unfair and that I just want a break from this pain, loss and fear.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Love
When Brian received his cancer diagnosis, he knew right away that it was terminal. They told him 8-12 months without chemo, two years with chemo. After much deliberation, he opted for chemo. It didn't extend his life. It didn't buy him more quality time. He died three and a half months later having never come back home from his surgery. But chemo is a topic for another post.
Brian was so smart and so introspective, and he processed his mortality quickly and privately. He also thought a lot about me, and how his death would effect my life. Often throughout his illness he spoke of how his dying was so much harder on me than it was on him. I find it hard to believe that that could be true, but I hope it is. I know how hard it has been for me, and I would like to think that it was easier for him, but I can't imagine that it was.
Brian and I had a rare and beautiful relationship. We had that kind of love that others dream about - a perfect non-demanding love that was always easy, always joyful, always true. So early on in his illness when he told me that he wanted me to love and to allow myself to fall in love again, I told him no and shut down the discussion.
Before he died he told me that he wanted me to live. He wanted me to be happy, to embrace life, and to live it for both of us. That was a hard thing to hear. After he died, I wanted to shrivel up and die myself. Suicide was attractive, but it was never an option as I promised him that I would live. And so I have, but loving again - that didn't seem possible. I always knew that what we had was special, and that I could never have that love again. What I didn't know, that Brian did, was that I couldn't go on living without love.
My life changed, and in many ways started, when Brian came into it. The love we shared made life beautiful. So when Brian wanted me to love again, he really wanted me to live. He knew that without love, my life wouldn't be worth living, so he didn't just give me permission to love again, he asked me to love again. He asked me to embrace life and live it fully, and he knew that without love I couldn't.
Now with some time and perspective, I am reminded of how smart Brian was, and just how completely he loved me. He was right - life without love can't be fully embraced. Without love, trust, and touch, life is stark and frightening.
About six months after Brian died, I just wanted someone to touch me - to validate that I was still alive by letting me feel a warm and tender touch. Brian and I were very physical - we always held hands, hugged, and kissed. When he died, I missed him so much in my life. I missed him in my bed. I missed his voice. I missed everything, but I didn't realize how much I missed his touch. I'm not talking about sex - I'm talking about the simple life affirming joy of a loving touch of a hand. I felt alone, ugly, undesirable, and half dead. I just needed to feel. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't interested in sex. I craved being touched. I wanted someone to hold my hand, to hug me in more than just that chaste "poor-widow" way that people hugged me. I needed to feel connection with life, and that was gone.
Eight months after Brian died, I became good friends with a man whose wife was diagnosed with cancer about the same time Brian was. She died three months after Brian. We met in a bereavement group, and being in such similar places in our grief we formed an fast connection. I remember the first night we talked, we were both so broken. I cried for Brian, he cried for his wife. We just sat and cried together. And then, much to my horror, I asked if I could touch him. Under any other circumstances that would have been terrible, but he looked at me and he understood exactly what I meant. And so we held hands and we both cried for our respective loved ones. As deep as my grief was, as much as I was ready to give up my life, as pained and broken as I was; holding hands with him was the first life affirming moment I had after Brian's death.
We are still very good friends. We still talk about our losses, but we also talk about our lives. We've held hands, we've hugged, we've helped each other with emotional and practical matters, and on an emotional level an intimate relationship. So many of my friends have decided that we also have a secret intimate physical relationship. It makes me laugh. We've never kissed. We've never flirted with the idea. That is not in our future. He is very dear to me because together we navigated through some of the worst parts of our grief. By listening, by understanding, and by holding my hand, he helped me to look away from death and back towards life.
So when I look forward towards life, I know that to embrace it I have to embrace love. I understand what Brian wanted for me, and I want it for myself. I can't live without love. I don't know how anyone could. Allowing myself to love, is allowing myself to live. To love, trust and touch another affirms that life is worth living. Allowing myself to love is not turning away from Brian, it's honoring his wish for me to have a full life.
I'm still figuring this life thing out. I still have fears. I still miss Brian every day. But I will let myself love completely. I will never compare another person to Brian - he was one of kind, as we all are. I will never try to replace that relationship or hold it as a benchmark for others. But I will allow myself to love, and share, and touch, and live because I need that as much as I need the air that I breathe.
I am not just able to love. I live to love, or maybe I love to live, or maybe its all the same thing.
Brian was so smart and so introspective, and he processed his mortality quickly and privately. He also thought a lot about me, and how his death would effect my life. Often throughout his illness he spoke of how his dying was so much harder on me than it was on him. I find it hard to believe that that could be true, but I hope it is. I know how hard it has been for me, and I would like to think that it was easier for him, but I can't imagine that it was.
Brian and I had a rare and beautiful relationship. We had that kind of love that others dream about - a perfect non-demanding love that was always easy, always joyful, always true. So early on in his illness when he told me that he wanted me to love and to allow myself to fall in love again, I told him no and shut down the discussion.
Before he died he told me that he wanted me to live. He wanted me to be happy, to embrace life, and to live it for both of us. That was a hard thing to hear. After he died, I wanted to shrivel up and die myself. Suicide was attractive, but it was never an option as I promised him that I would live. And so I have, but loving again - that didn't seem possible. I always knew that what we had was special, and that I could never have that love again. What I didn't know, that Brian did, was that I couldn't go on living without love.
My life changed, and in many ways started, when Brian came into it. The love we shared made life beautiful. So when Brian wanted me to love again, he really wanted me to live. He knew that without love, my life wouldn't be worth living, so he didn't just give me permission to love again, he asked me to love again. He asked me to embrace life and live it fully, and he knew that without love I couldn't.
Now with some time and perspective, I am reminded of how smart Brian was, and just how completely he loved me. He was right - life without love can't be fully embraced. Without love, trust, and touch, life is stark and frightening.
About six months after Brian died, I just wanted someone to touch me - to validate that I was still alive by letting me feel a warm and tender touch. Brian and I were very physical - we always held hands, hugged, and kissed. When he died, I missed him so much in my life. I missed him in my bed. I missed his voice. I missed everything, but I didn't realize how much I missed his touch. I'm not talking about sex - I'm talking about the simple life affirming joy of a loving touch of a hand. I felt alone, ugly, undesirable, and half dead. I just needed to feel. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't interested in sex. I craved being touched. I wanted someone to hold my hand, to hug me in more than just that chaste "poor-widow" way that people hugged me. I needed to feel connection with life, and that was gone.
Eight months after Brian died, I became good friends with a man whose wife was diagnosed with cancer about the same time Brian was. She died three months after Brian. We met in a bereavement group, and being in such similar places in our grief we formed an fast connection. I remember the first night we talked, we were both so broken. I cried for Brian, he cried for his wife. We just sat and cried together. And then, much to my horror, I asked if I could touch him. Under any other circumstances that would have been terrible, but he looked at me and he understood exactly what I meant. And so we held hands and we both cried for our respective loved ones. As deep as my grief was, as much as I was ready to give up my life, as pained and broken as I was; holding hands with him was the first life affirming moment I had after Brian's death.
We are still very good friends. We still talk about our losses, but we also talk about our lives. We've held hands, we've hugged, we've helped each other with emotional and practical matters, and on an emotional level an intimate relationship. So many of my friends have decided that we also have a secret intimate physical relationship. It makes me laugh. We've never kissed. We've never flirted with the idea. That is not in our future. He is very dear to me because together we navigated through some of the worst parts of our grief. By listening, by understanding, and by holding my hand, he helped me to look away from death and back towards life.
So when I look forward towards life, I know that to embrace it I have to embrace love. I understand what Brian wanted for me, and I want it for myself. I can't live without love. I don't know how anyone could. Allowing myself to love, is allowing myself to live. To love, trust and touch another affirms that life is worth living. Allowing myself to love is not turning away from Brian, it's honoring his wish for me to have a full life.
I'm still figuring this life thing out. I still have fears. I still miss Brian every day. But I will let myself love completely. I will never compare another person to Brian - he was one of kind, as we all are. I will never try to replace that relationship or hold it as a benchmark for others. But I will allow myself to love, and share, and touch, and live because I need that as much as I need the air that I breathe.
I am not just able to love. I live to love, or maybe I love to live, or maybe its all the same thing.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Changes
It's been 15 1/2 months since Brian died. When you lose your husband young, you know that everything will change. Life is no longer the same, but somehow you go on breathing. The loss becomes part of your reality, and everything in daily life changes and becomes harder. I expected this. I knew that grief would make life harder. I knew that my responsibilities would be greater. I knew that I would suffer more fears. What I didn't know or expect was how everyone would view me differently.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
I've always been an emotional person, and I never hid my grief and my tears from those around me. As the grief matured and became less raw, I marveled at the fact that I survived. I would never have guessed that I could have the strength to survive such a devastating loss, but I did. I still mourn, I still grieve, but I live, I love, I work. I don't think I'm strong. I think that I had no choice but to survive. But, whereas in the past I always viewed myself as emotionally immature, I now see myself as emotionally strong. That's not to say I'm not an emotional person. I still can cry on the drop of a hat, but my thinking has changed. When you experience a profound loss you learn what is important and what isn't. Though my friends and family might not agree, I KNOW that I am emotionally strong and centered. Things that at one time would frazzle me, no longer matter. I have no energy for the bull-shit that once bogged me down.
So I'm angry, hurt, and disappointed to realize that many of my friends and family view me as weak, immature, and helpless. Some of my friends and family members seem to view me as a helpless five year old instead of as a strong 50 year old surviver.
I survived an unhappy childhood. I survived mental illness in my family. I survived date rape. I survived losing two husbands; the first to drug addiction, the second to cancer. I survived a failed career. I survived the loss of my hopes and dreams.
I am surviving, and despite my losses, I'm doing well. I have a lot of fears, but I don't let them cripple me. I need help, and I know how to ask for it. I'm suffering from chronic and severe physical pain, and I'm able to function and get done everything that I need, if not everything that I want. So when some members of my family and some of my good friends recently treated me like a child, I went through a gamete of emotions. Initially furious I tried to tell myself that people care about me and acted in love. The anger gave way to disappointment, the disappointment gave way to depression, and the depression turned back into anger.
If there is one thing that I have always hated, it is others telling me what to think, feel or do. I realize that in my family, I have always been treated like the baby. No matter how old I get or how capable I am, my immediate family always seems to think that they know what is best for me. They never consider my priorities, desires and dreams - they have always tried to project their values onto me, and it has always annoyed me. But recently, when my friends began to do the same thing, I was shocked. Shocked by the revelation that they think that they know what is best for me, and by the realization that they don't think that I'm capable of managing my life. Somewhere along the road, I have given them the impression that I need them to intervene on my behalf.
I am blessed with truly wonderful friends, who supported me and helped me through Brian's illness and death, and who continued to support me and help me after. I've had some health issues and relied on my friends to drive me to doctor appointments and help me with other challenges. Maybe I've been selfish and allowed them to help me too much. Maybe my needs became too much for them, and they aren't able to help me as much as I have needed. I don't know what they are thinking because they didn't respect me enough to talk to me about their concerns. Instead, they contacted my 78 year old mother and my 84 year old father who are dealing with their own issues, and told them that I am in pain and not managing. They implied that I need my elderly parents to come and take care of me because I am incapable of caring for myself. They never considered my feelings in this. They didn't think that this might be inappropriate and may have unpleasant consequences for me. They just acted as they saw fit without talking to me first.
So now I'm stuck in a terrible place because I love my friends and know that they meant well. I know that they thought that they were acting in my best interest. I know that they didn't intend to hurt me or create problems for me, but they did. Whatever their intent, I feel like they don't respect me or view me as an adult. I feel incredibly insulted, but I also am so grateful for all the truly wonderful things that they have done for me and don't want to damage the relationships. So I'm back to where I used to be so often in my life - trying to excuse the unacceptable behavior of others at my own expense.
When I tried to discuss my disappointment, I was shut down and shut out. Brian taught me to stand up for myself and respect myself. He taught me to not let others walk all over what I believe. I feel now that people dear to me are walking all over me, and while there is a part of me that wants to lash out in anger, there is another part of me that doesn't want to hurt anyone the way that I feel hurt by them.
So how do I ask for help? How do I find a balance of letting others help without letting them feel like they have some power over me? I don't know. I just know that I feel hurt, insulted and angry, and these feelings make me want to isolate myself from additional pain.
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