I've been trying so hard to figure out how to live with grief. I don't know how to do it. I reach out to my friends, I force myself to get out, I try to rationalize my feelings, but there is no denying that I'm depressed. Severely depressed - and therapy or antidepressants aren't going to fix it.
I am not good at being alone with myself. I miss Brian. The loneliness is suffocating. I can't imagine that time can heal this unbearable loneliness.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Today
Today he was supposed to turn 49.
Today we were supposed to celebrate.
Today we were supposed to reminis about all our wonderful memories from the past year, and look forward to making memories together for years into the future.
Today nothing is as it should be.
Today we were supposed to celebrate.
Today we were supposed to reminis about all our wonderful memories from the past year, and look forward to making memories together for years into the future.
Today nothing is as it should be.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Comfort?
There is no comfort, only distraction. I reach out to friends, I work, I try to stay occupied; but the pain is always there, right at the surface. When the distraction ends, the pain returns with a shocking force. I am defenceless. I have no power to tame the despair. I am broken, torn, and isolated in my pain.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
stages of grief
How do you define grief? I haven't looked it up in the dictionary - and I'm not sure one can define it as grief changes with time.
Initially there was fear - fear of watching my husband suffer, fear of the unknown, fear that I wouldn't be strong enough to be there for Brian.
Then comes the selfish fear. How will I live without him. Fear of moving forward without my lover, my best friend, my confidant. Fear of being alone and lonely.
As the disease took over, the exhaustion set in. Life became focused on what little I could do to make him more comfortable. I brought him water, I gave him baths, I irrigated drainage tubs, emptied urinals, changed bedding, held the basin and wiped his mouth when he vomited. Nothing mattered more than his meager needs. I wasn't eating properly, I wasn't sleeping enough, I wasn't taking care of my own health. I just needed to be there to do anything and everything that I could do for him. The exhaustion was consuming, and when he slept, and I stayed up watching his chest rise and fall, I cried out of frustration with my powerlessness and my sheer exhaustion.
But things only get worse. You approach the final days. In his last week it was clear that Brian was slipping fast. He could no longer communicate and I had to guess as to what I could do to him. At that point the grief shifted its focus to me. At that point I knew he would be gone, and that knowledge is crushing. I tried to make sure he was aware that he wasn't alone - I sang our song to him, I promised him I wouldn't leave his side - and all the while the tears flowed. I couldn't hide the grief; I couldn't pretend to be anything but shattered.
I think that the absolute worst time, the most crippling moments were in the last two days. The days during which it was clear that I had to hit the mophine button - not to relieve his pain, but to end his pain.
He died at 5am on Saturday morning - 14weeks and 4 days after his diagnosis. 34 days in a hospital bed, 66 days in a hospice bed. He never came home, he never felt the sun on his face, he never left the bed. For the last hour oh his life I layed with him in bed and held him in my arms. At 5am he squeezed my hand, took two more breaths, and was gone. Just one day earlier, his last words, his only word were "Love You".
And that was it. I asked everyone to leave, and I bathed my husband's body. I kissed him goodbye, covered him with clean sheets, and waited until they came for his body,
That was April 20. Now its December 1. People think that the worst should be over. What do they know? The greif isn't over, it isn't better. It is different. And the one and only person who truly knows me, who understands how I think and how I feel, is gone. Cancer killed my Brian, and now my grief is like a cancer - it won't kill me, but it makes me question my ability to live.
Initially there was fear - fear of watching my husband suffer, fear of the unknown, fear that I wouldn't be strong enough to be there for Brian.
Then comes the selfish fear. How will I live without him. Fear of moving forward without my lover, my best friend, my confidant. Fear of being alone and lonely.
As the disease took over, the exhaustion set in. Life became focused on what little I could do to make him more comfortable. I brought him water, I gave him baths, I irrigated drainage tubs, emptied urinals, changed bedding, held the basin and wiped his mouth when he vomited. Nothing mattered more than his meager needs. I wasn't eating properly, I wasn't sleeping enough, I wasn't taking care of my own health. I just needed to be there to do anything and everything that I could do for him. The exhaustion was consuming, and when he slept, and I stayed up watching his chest rise and fall, I cried out of frustration with my powerlessness and my sheer exhaustion.
But things only get worse. You approach the final days. In his last week it was clear that Brian was slipping fast. He could no longer communicate and I had to guess as to what I could do to him. At that point the grief shifted its focus to me. At that point I knew he would be gone, and that knowledge is crushing. I tried to make sure he was aware that he wasn't alone - I sang our song to him, I promised him I wouldn't leave his side - and all the while the tears flowed. I couldn't hide the grief; I couldn't pretend to be anything but shattered.
I think that the absolute worst time, the most crippling moments were in the last two days. The days during which it was clear that I had to hit the mophine button - not to relieve his pain, but to end his pain.
He died at 5am on Saturday morning - 14weeks and 4 days after his diagnosis. 34 days in a hospital bed, 66 days in a hospice bed. He never came home, he never felt the sun on his face, he never left the bed. For the last hour oh his life I layed with him in bed and held him in my arms. At 5am he squeezed my hand, took two more breaths, and was gone. Just one day earlier, his last words, his only word were "Love You".
And that was it. I asked everyone to leave, and I bathed my husband's body. I kissed him goodbye, covered him with clean sheets, and waited until they came for his body,
That was April 20. Now its December 1. People think that the worst should be over. What do they know? The greif isn't over, it isn't better. It is different. And the one and only person who truly knows me, who understands how I think and how I feel, is gone. Cancer killed my Brian, and now my grief is like a cancer - it won't kill me, but it makes me question my ability to live.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Thanksgiving Night
I didn't want there to be a Thanksgiving this year. While I still have much to be thankful for, this holiday without Brian is unthinkable.
Last year we hosted Thanksgiving for some of our nieces, nephews, and one sister in law and it was the kind of Thanksgiving I have always dreamed of. I haven't forgotten that I had about 20 minutes of the crankies when I got stuck scrubbing all the pots and casseroles without help, but that only lasted until I got done. The kids were playing games, we all enjoyed just being comfortable with each other. It was pretty darned close to perfect. And Brian was there, and the two of us were happy, and thrilled to be having an amazing day with family. No tension, no fighting, no drama. Just good food, good fun, and a lot of love. It was to become a tradition. But...
And now Brian is gone, and our plans to create this wonderful tradition that we could enjoy with our loved ones and the next generation of loved ones - well - it just can't be. Nothing can ever be the way that I had dreamed.
This years plan was to just ignore the holiday. No cooking, no guests, no festive meal. I wanted to sleep through it and pretend it didn't exist.
My parents are still here. When they planned to come help me after the surgery, my mom refused to leave before Thanksgiving. While I would have liked to be alone so I could cry freely, I love her for insisting on staying. A few days ago I actually felt bad. My parents have been really great - and I was depriving them of Thanksgiving too. So I called Farm and made a reservation for 3 under my name. They always do a traditional turkey dinner, but also offer a vegetarian option. Mom and dad could have the holiday, and I could just eat. I thought it would be OK.
When we got there, many people were waiting to be seated. I gave the Maitre D' my last name. Just a few minutes later, a hostess tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Table for Brian?". It felt like time stopped. I couldn't breath. I didn't use his name when making the reservation or checking in. It felt like the most cruel kind of a joke.
I followed the hostess to our table - the same table where Brian and I ate the first time we went to Farm. A table set for four, with four menus.
Just as I started to feel like I had to leave, I stopped. This was no cruel joke. This was no cosmic message. This was just a little odd and unexpected. Brian and I had eaten there many times together. We have an unusual last name. We are polite patrons. Everyone loved Brian for his kindness, patience, and sense of humor - so it wasn't odd that they would remember his first name with our last name. I decided that I would just eat my meal, forget about the holiday, and hold all the love that Brian and I share close in my heart and my thoughts.
Dinner was OK, but it wasn't Thanksgiving - it was just food. My parents enjoyed there meals' as did I, but it was just a meal. If I planned to acknowledge Thanksgiving, it would have been the worst Thanksgiving ever - make that 2nd worse. There was no joy at our table, no laughter. No extended family. No favorite recipes. There was barely any conversation. And I think that I am Thankful for all that wasn't.
I don't know if I'll be ready to have Thanksgiving next year or if I'll need more time. I don't know much anymore. I do know that my husband was an amazing man. Nobody loves and appreciated him more than I, but so many people saw how special he was, and remember him as a wonderful man. From Jeff at Commercial Services who cried with me as he shared his memories of Brian, to all of our friends, to his clients, to the staff at the Farm. Brian was special, and he touched so many people, and he is loved and remembered by so many.
Today wasn't Thanksgiving for me. It was just a Thursday, and I survived it. The tears didn't begin to flow until I had privacy. My parents went to sleep, and I can think, and remember, and cry, and blog, and know that as sad as I now am, I am grateful to have Brian's love, and Thankful for every second we had together. Even while intentionally avoiding the holiday, I somehow managed to focus on being Thankful for Brian's love, humor, kindness and a million other qualities before letting in the pain and grief.
Brian, I wish you were here so I could tell you how thankful and grateful I am for our love, marriage, friendship, and completeness. I would also like to thank you for leaving behind your wisdom. I can't see you, I can't hear you, but I still rely on your wisdom, strength, and compassion to get me through each day.
Last year we hosted Thanksgiving for some of our nieces, nephews, and one sister in law and it was the kind of Thanksgiving I have always dreamed of. I haven't forgotten that I had about 20 minutes of the crankies when I got stuck scrubbing all the pots and casseroles without help, but that only lasted until I got done. The kids were playing games, we all enjoyed just being comfortable with each other. It was pretty darned close to perfect. And Brian was there, and the two of us were happy, and thrilled to be having an amazing day with family. No tension, no fighting, no drama. Just good food, good fun, and a lot of love. It was to become a tradition. But...
And now Brian is gone, and our plans to create this wonderful tradition that we could enjoy with our loved ones and the next generation of loved ones - well - it just can't be. Nothing can ever be the way that I had dreamed.
This years plan was to just ignore the holiday. No cooking, no guests, no festive meal. I wanted to sleep through it and pretend it didn't exist.
My parents are still here. When they planned to come help me after the surgery, my mom refused to leave before Thanksgiving. While I would have liked to be alone so I could cry freely, I love her for insisting on staying. A few days ago I actually felt bad. My parents have been really great - and I was depriving them of Thanksgiving too. So I called Farm and made a reservation for 3 under my name. They always do a traditional turkey dinner, but also offer a vegetarian option. Mom and dad could have the holiday, and I could just eat. I thought it would be OK.
When we got there, many people were waiting to be seated. I gave the Maitre D' my last name. Just a few minutes later, a hostess tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Table for Brian?". It felt like time stopped. I couldn't breath. I didn't use his name when making the reservation or checking in. It felt like the most cruel kind of a joke.
I followed the hostess to our table - the same table where Brian and I ate the first time we went to Farm. A table set for four, with four menus.
Just as I started to feel like I had to leave, I stopped. This was no cruel joke. This was no cosmic message. This was just a little odd and unexpected. Brian and I had eaten there many times together. We have an unusual last name. We are polite patrons. Everyone loved Brian for his kindness, patience, and sense of humor - so it wasn't odd that they would remember his first name with our last name. I decided that I would just eat my meal, forget about the holiday, and hold all the love that Brian and I share close in my heart and my thoughts.
Dinner was OK, but it wasn't Thanksgiving - it was just food. My parents enjoyed there meals' as did I, but it was just a meal. If I planned to acknowledge Thanksgiving, it would have been the worst Thanksgiving ever - make that 2nd worse. There was no joy at our table, no laughter. No extended family. No favorite recipes. There was barely any conversation. And I think that I am Thankful for all that wasn't.
I don't know if I'll be ready to have Thanksgiving next year or if I'll need more time. I don't know much anymore. I do know that my husband was an amazing man. Nobody loves and appreciated him more than I, but so many people saw how special he was, and remember him as a wonderful man. From Jeff at Commercial Services who cried with me as he shared his memories of Brian, to all of our friends, to his clients, to the staff at the Farm. Brian was special, and he touched so many people, and he is loved and remembered by so many.
Today wasn't Thanksgiving for me. It was just a Thursday, and I survived it. The tears didn't begin to flow until I had privacy. My parents went to sleep, and I can think, and remember, and cry, and blog, and know that as sad as I now am, I am grateful to have Brian's love, and Thankful for every second we had together. Even while intentionally avoiding the holiday, I somehow managed to focus on being Thankful for Brian's love, humor, kindness and a million other qualities before letting in the pain and grief.
Brian, I wish you were here so I could tell you how thankful and grateful I am for our love, marriage, friendship, and completeness. I would also like to thank you for leaving behind your wisdom. I can't see you, I can't hear you, but I still rely on your wisdom, strength, and compassion to get me through each day.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Thanksgiving
Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving without him. Just a year ago he was here and we didn't know about the cancer. We made a turkey and our nieces and nephews were here and we had a great family Thanksgiving.
Just a year ago - a lifetime ago.
Just a year ago - a lifetime ago.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Maturing Grief
Grief ages like wine. With time it takes on more levels and more subtle tones. It starts out almost one dimensional - a flat and completely overwhelming pain. With time, it mellows but takes on so many nuances and subtle flavors that can sneak up on you and overwhelm you with their strength.
Those closest to grief can be overcome by it. It can so easily take control and overshadow everything in life.
I have come to believe that I am powerless over my grief, but no moral inventory can free me from this pain.
Those closest to grief can be overcome by it. It can so easily take control and overshadow everything in life.
I have come to believe that I am powerless over my grief, but no moral inventory can free me from this pain.
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