Inertia

I feel like I'm in a state of total inertia, and I hate it.

I lost my husband; I spend too much time alone; I'm in a dead end job with pay that doesn't cover my bills; I'm not keeping up with housework; I can't seem to get some health issues managed.  There is so much I should or could do - housework, yardwork, cleaning out some of Brian's things, divesting myself of my own "stuff" in the knowledge that I should downsize into a smaller home to reduce my expenses.  I'm just not doing any of those things.  I do the minimum to get by.  Laundry, bills.  Even preparing meals is often too much of an effort.  Who wants to cook for one?  Eat alone? Eat the same thing all week? 

Some things have gotten better, certainly, but there is an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness that overshadows everything else in my life.  I know that there is a lot of good still out there for me, but I also know that my best years are behind me.  I know that if I had a desire to look for it, there might even be a new relationship out there for me, but I believe that the perfect partnership is behind me and that no other could be as perfect, as all encompassing, as fulfilling as my relationship with Brian.

I had a visit with my doctor this week, and he injected an implant into my eye.  I've had more injections in my eye that I can count at this point.  This time I was terrified.  This was something new - a larger needle, and not just a medication, but an implant being placed into my eye.  I was fighting to hold back tears because I just wanted Brian to hold my hand. I hate having to pretend to be strong when I don't feel strong.  I hate having to face these fears alone.  I hate that my life is moving on without him.  I've met people and been to places that Brian never knew.  I've experienced good things and bad things that Brian hasn't experienced.  I've created new memories that he is not a part of.  It hurts. 

I have amazing friends who support me and love me, but in so many things in my life I am completely alone, and it breaks my heart.  I am lonely.  I am not good with my own company.  I see me friends, and I have good times, and I laugh and enjoy some things in my life, but at the end of the day I go home alone.  I climb into bed alone.  I go to sleep alone.  I wake up alone.  None of this was my choice.  None of this was the plan.

It has been a year, ten months and eight days since he has been gone, and I still can't wrap my brain around what has happened.  How does a 48 year old man go in for exploratory surgery and never come home?  How does someone stop breathing and cease to exist?  How do I as his wife learn to live in a world without him?

Maybe I could and should be doing more to have a better life without Brian, but I'm stuck.  I can't push past the inertia.  I can't process the pain.

Fury

I've been so incredibly angry lately.  I'm not sure how long my mind and body can sustain such intense anger.  I have memories and flashbacks that send me into panic.  I have no answers or explanations.  I'm incredibly angry at how unfair life can be.  How the hell could Brian have died?  He had only just turned 48.  How the hell did my life become a series of losses and failures.  A failed marriage.  A stolen marriage.  A tanked career.  I did what everyone told me I should do.  I went to the school that everyone insisted I go to to get the right opportunities - and where has that left me?  I was "good"; I always played it safe and towed the line because that was what I was supposed to do - and what did that earn me?  The one and only decision that I made for purely selfish reasons - despite my families objections - was to marry Brian, and that was the one and only decision that clearly was the right thing to do.  To follow my heart and to allow myself to love, be loved, and be happy.

Now he's dead.  I'm stuck in a dead end job after a failed career.  I'm broke.  I have unmanaged health issues.  I can't get the drugs I need because of the bureaucracy of the insurance business.  I can't afford the only meds that relieve my pain.  My boss is an unstable rage-aholic.   I work long days and come home to being the sole caretaker of our dog, the sole keeper of the house, the sole payer of the bills.  I don't have the time, energy or money to manage things. 

Brian is dead, my life is out of control, and I'm alone in this hell that nobody can understand and that if few, if any, even know that I'm in. 

My life feels like it's not even about me.  It's about pleasing my boss, and trying to take care of responsibilities.  There is nothing to plan for.  Nothing to look forward to.  I'm no longer a student planning my life.  I'm no longer a career person planning advancement.  I'm no longer a wife.  I'm nobody's mother.  I'm just a sad, lonely, incredibly angry person who really needs a break. 

I go to work everyday, and do my best to get things under control, but like everyone else in the office, I'm only as relevant as my last mistake.  The boss has no understanding of business or how to behave in a business relationship.  I used to think that she just hated me, but she lashes out at everyone - always assuming the worst.  She never gives an employee the benefit of the doubt.  She never asks why something didn't happen as we had hoped or planned.  She just makes it clear that she thinks that everyone who works for her are lazy, incompetent idiots.  Truth be told, right now we have a strong staff, and given the lousy pay she offers, she is blessed to have such a devoted group.  Heaven forbid she every thank any of the staff or show any appreciation. 

I work in this hostile environment, and then come home to a messy house, laundry that needs to be washed and folded, things that need to be cleaned.  There are bills that need to be paid, and not enough money to pay them.  There is rarely a well stocked kitchen, and even if there were, I'm unlikely to cook dinner for one at 8pm. 

This was our home together.  Our refuge from the bullshit of the work day, from the craziness of a broken world where people hate, and kill, and suffer.  This was a home that wasn't always neat, and wasn't always clean, but was always bursting with love and laughter.  This was a place where all the outside bullshit didn't matter so much because what we had in this home was so much more important than anything else.

Now this is just a house.  Just a building making more demands on my time and bank account.  I don't feel a refuge here.  I don't come home to that love and laughter.  I come home to my anger at knowing that the things that were truly great are gone, and that now, while there are still moments of joy and laughter, there are more of pain and lonliness.

I miss Brian.  I miss our life.  I miss his love and support.  I miss the foundation of my life.  I am so angry.  This is a private hell.

Change, Loss

Two years ago today my life changed.  Two years ago today was Brian's surgery and the horrific declaration from the doctor that he was dying.

After that he never came home.  After that he, we, never did so many things.

Today there were some horribly painful memories.  Today there were some awful moments.  There were also some good ones.

It still hurts.  It will always hurt.  But I need to live with the pain and loss and still be happy.  And I have to somehow figure it all out.

Two years ago

Two years ago Brian and I invited a bunch of our Jewish friends to join us for a movie and Chinese food.  We saw Les Miserables and went out for one of the worst Chinese meals ever.  We didn't imagine that it would be our last time sharing in that tradition.  We didn't know that it would be the last movie he ever saw, or that it would be the last time we went out for a meal together.  We had no idea that just a few days later he would become very sick or that just two weeks later the doctor would tell me that he was dying.

All we knew then was that we were in love, and that we were sharing a fun day with friends.  We were looking forward to 2013, and expecting to share a wonderful new year.  We were so blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, and that that day was more of an ending than a beginning.

Two years later and I'm still struggling with this new normal.  I have many good things in my life.  I have great friends, and meaningful relationships.  I have newly found strength and gratitude.  Still, I struggle with my losses.

I'm grateful for the memories.  I'm grateful for so much.  But my losses are still so real.

Today we saw Imitation Game and ate at one of Brian's favorite restaurants.  He would have loved the movie.  He would have loved sharing the day with our friends.  I loved the movie.  I loved being with people I love, but I still can't fathom how that wonderful group that I spent the day with didn't include him.  In just a few days it will be two years sine we knew he was really sick.  In just a few weeks it will be two years sine he left our home for the last time.  Two years since the doctor told me he was dying. Two years since I told Brian he was dying.  Two years since a parade of horror, bad luck, and pain.

Time doesn't heal all wounds.  Time adds new perspective.  It let's the raw edges smooth.  It let's the shock wear off.  It lets reality set in.  Time makes room for laughter and love to return.  It allows the most broken of hearts feel again.  But no amount of time can erase the loss or make the pain OK.

Today wasn't a bad day.  Today wasn't drenched in sorrow, but the loss was with me all day.  A loss that I am learning to live with despite the fact that I will never be comfortable in it.

The gift of love

Thursday should have been Brian's 50th birthday.  I expected the day to be difficult.  I didn't expect it to be as difficult and painful as it was.  It hurt.  On a day when we should have been celebrating life, I was thrown back into all sorts of memories of his death.  While it seems like it shouldn't have been so, the anniversary of his birth was even harder than the anniversary of his death.

When the pain of memory became crushing, I was rescued by friends and people that I love.  A very select few knew exactly how to reach out, and one knew exactly what to say and do to help me turn away from the pain of death and back towards the joy of life.

There are parts of me that will never recover from Brian's death.  There are memories of his dying that will always haunt me.  But I know what Brian wanted for me.  He wanted me to live, to be happy, to laugh, and to love again; and while a year ago these things seemed impossible, I know that despite the loss I can live and love.  I know now that I must love in order to live, and despite the fact that I will never stop loving Brian, I have it in me to give and accept love from someone else.  I also know that while I often feel weak and cowardly inside, it is a thing of courage to open my heart to love again when it can lead to more loss.

I loved Brian totally and completely.  Our years together were so happy.  Our relationship was such a gift.  Without love life is a compromise.  I don't want that.  I want to live life to its fullest.  I want my life to have meaning.

Thursday was an unbelievably hard day, but by Thursday night I knew that love would save me and allow me to experience happiness again.  The gift of Brian's love let me know how wonderful life can be.  It will be the gift of another that let's me experience that wonder and joy once more.

Thanksgiving

Today is the day when we are supposed to be thankful.  We're supposed to spend the day with our families laughing and eating.

I have so much to be thankful for; much more than most.  I'm thankful for my parents, sister, and all my nieces and nephews.  I'm thankful for the love of friends.  I'm thankful that I live comfortably.  But on Thanksgiving, it is hard to not focus on the loss.

Today is my second Thanksgiving without Brian.  Two years ago we spent Thanksgiving at home, with a house full of people we love - happy and, we thought, healthy.  Who knew that Briand's stomach ache after dinner was the cancer and not the turkey?

Last year on Thanksgiving I was recovering from back surgery.  My parents were here with me, but it was a non-holiday.  It was easy to ignore Thanksgiving.

This year I was supposed to fly to New York to spend the holiday with my sister's family and my parents, but the weather had different ideas.  Ridiculously long flight delays made me cancel the trip.  Honestly, I wasn't disappointed.  I would have loved to see my nephew, but I was dreading spending Thanksgiving with my family.  How can it be a holiday with family if Brian isn't there?  It can't.

Grief has become private.  I know longer wear it publically on my face or on my sleeve.  It's still very much with me on a daily basis, but I don't have the energy to let it loose, and others have list their patience with it.  Its been 19 months, the new normal is supposed to be comfortable.  It isn't.  Especially on Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is a cruel reminder of the one thing we were most thankful for and that was taken away.  I'm very grateful for the time together that we shared.  Until the cancer it was all good.  But he was given a death sentence when he had just turned 48.

I'll be spending this afternoon with friends.  We'll laugh, we'll eat and it will be fine.  It will be better than fine, it will be fun.  But family Thanksgivings will never again feel right.  I'll continue to celebrate Thanksgiving, and I hope that one of these years, my grief finds a place within me where it no longer casts a shadow on my gratitude.

Grief and Time

Today I spoke with a friend of mine who experienced the loss of his wife around the same time that I lost Brian.  We have spoken often of our losses and our grief.  A year ago at this time, neither of us understood how we could possible survive, but we have.  Life goes on, we remember how to laugh, we remember how to enjoy things, we accept new good things into our lives.  But that doesn't mean that one ever moves on from their loss.  You don't.  Time smooths the ragged edges, new experiences bring satisfaction, new friendship and relationships bring joy; but the loss is always there and it always will be.  It changes from a public thing to a private thing. 

In early grief the pain is always there and impossible to hide.  It is on our faces and in our voices.  Strangers may not understand it, but they see it.  As time goes on, it isn't there every moment of every day.  Smiles and laughter return.  Eventually, others no longer see the grief, and they lose tolerance for it.  At that point, the grieving and loss become a very private matter.  It doesn't cast a shadow over every moment like it once did, but it can rear its ugly head without warning, and even with the passing of time it can be intense and cruel.

I know that life has a lot to offer me, and I am open to receiving it.  I want love, laughter, companionship and all the wonderful things that come along with them. I love that I am able to experience happiness again!  But there are still moments when the pain of Brian's death is unbearable.  There are still moments when, even if I am surrounded by friends, I am overwhelmed with loneliness.

I don't know who, if anyone, reads these posts.  It doesn't matter, because I write them for myself.  If you are reading, try to remember that time does not end the pain of loss.  That pain never goes away.  It is always there, sometimes buried deep and sometimes right under the surface.  Try to be patient with others when they seem inexplicably saddened. 

I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with others who, like me, are also fighting to understand their relationship with loss.  I need to write this so that I remember to be patient with those who are, so far, unfamiliar with the sort of loss that I have experienced.  I need to remember that what might feel like insensitivity isn't; it's just the impossibility of understanding how profound loss can be.  I wish that I was still incapable of understanding that.