A year and a half ago was Brian's last night. A year and a half ago tomorrow morning I became a widow.
Was there something that I was supposed to learn in this time? Was I supposed to become smarter or stronger? Was I supposed to be more enlightened?
I'm not. I'm so much more alive than I was a year and a half ago, but I don't see any good that has come from Brian's death. It was random and cruel. It was meaningless.
I've always thought that the difficult times in my life were meant to teach me something. I no longer believe that. There isn't always a silver lining.
Edit: I just realized that it isn't a year and a half, it is a year and five months. Memory and emotion don't always coincide with anniversaries, and thank God for that.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Another Goodbye
This morning I had to put my sweet kitty, Tater to sleep. "To Sleep", what a comforting euphemism. He's not sleeping, he's dead, and I'm so so sad. When Brian and I met, he had one cat and I had two. Tater was ours. The kitty we both fell in love with and invited into our family together. He was the sweetest, most cuddly, loveable cat we had ever met, and he brought us so many smiles.
He was an old boy - at least 16 and very likely 18 years old. He lived a long and good life, but somehow that is little comfort when you lose a pet. Ironically, and thankfully, my friend Sharon came to visit me today. Sharon was Brian's hospice nurse. She took care of him, and she took care of me. She is one of the most beautiful, kind, and compassionate people I know. We planned a short visit and a chance to catch up with each other. When we sat down to talk, and Tater came over for some loving, I knew that something was very wrong. His eye, which has been weepy on and off for a few months was covered with a bloody puss. He smelled like infection - a horrible hospital smell that signals the worst kind of wrong. I pulled him to me and saw that his beautiful coat was lackluster and course, and that he seemed to have blood, or puss, or something on his coat. Then I pulled back his lip, and saw what I thought was a huge abscess in his mouth.
Sharon, who knows more about end of life care than I ever hope to know, agreed that I should call the vet right away. I'm not allowed to lift, so she put him in his crate and drove us to the vet. While his vitals were ok, his mouth and eye weren't. The vet said that the infection and swelling in his mouth was almost certainly a malignant tumor. She let me know that I could bring him back during the week to biopsy it, but that if it was malignant, nothing could be done. How could I put my aged kitty through anesthesia and the pain of recovery if there was nothing to be done? His temperature wasn't high enough to suggest an infection. And then it all sort of clicked. That adorable snaggle tooth that he developed about five years ago was actually the result of a growing tumor. His weepy eye that never responded to medications was actually caused by the growing tumor pressing up through the roof of his mouth into his orbit. My sweet, loveable, purring kitty was very very sick, and beyond medical help.
Having seen cancer in cruel action, I knew that the kindest thing to do for Tater would be the hardest thing for me to do. So with a broken heart, I told the vet that it was time to euthanize him. She and Sharon both sadly agreed.
This is the fifth time I've had to euthanize a pet. Every other time, the decision was clear; they were in pain and suffering and had no quality of life left. Tater was purring - even as they put in his IV. As bad as things were, he didn't indicate that he has been in pain. He had slown down a lot,and slept most of the time, but he still ate and drank and purred so loudly that you couldn't believe anything could be wrong. But my once robust 25 pound kitty was down to 12.4 pounds, and as horrible as it felt, keeping him alive would have been incredibly selfish of me.
Life is so unfair. Things have been so hard lately. I can't stand any more loss or pain. I know that AI did the right thing. I know that if Brian had been here to help me with this decision, we would have done the same thing, and then we would have come home and cried together. I don't want to be selfish, but I want a break.
Today I was supposed to be in Fort Wayne attending my niece's wedding. Instead, I am home recuperating from another back surgery, and mourning the sweetest cat I have ever known. I have missed so many celebrations lately, and have dealt with so much loss. This just isn't the way life is supposed to be.
Goodbye, my Sweet Tater. I will miss you so much.
He was an old boy - at least 16 and very likely 18 years old. He lived a long and good life, but somehow that is little comfort when you lose a pet. Ironically, and thankfully, my friend Sharon came to visit me today. Sharon was Brian's hospice nurse. She took care of him, and she took care of me. She is one of the most beautiful, kind, and compassionate people I know. We planned a short visit and a chance to catch up with each other. When we sat down to talk, and Tater came over for some loving, I knew that something was very wrong. His eye, which has been weepy on and off for a few months was covered with a bloody puss. He smelled like infection - a horrible hospital smell that signals the worst kind of wrong. I pulled him to me and saw that his beautiful coat was lackluster and course, and that he seemed to have blood, or puss, or something on his coat. Then I pulled back his lip, and saw what I thought was a huge abscess in his mouth.
Sharon, who knows more about end of life care than I ever hope to know, agreed that I should call the vet right away. I'm not allowed to lift, so she put him in his crate and drove us to the vet. While his vitals were ok, his mouth and eye weren't. The vet said that the infection and swelling in his mouth was almost certainly a malignant tumor. She let me know that I could bring him back during the week to biopsy it, but that if it was malignant, nothing could be done. How could I put my aged kitty through anesthesia and the pain of recovery if there was nothing to be done? His temperature wasn't high enough to suggest an infection. And then it all sort of clicked. That adorable snaggle tooth that he developed about five years ago was actually the result of a growing tumor. His weepy eye that never responded to medications was actually caused by the growing tumor pressing up through the roof of his mouth into his orbit. My sweet, loveable, purring kitty was very very sick, and beyond medical help.
Having seen cancer in cruel action, I knew that the kindest thing to do for Tater would be the hardest thing for me to do. So with a broken heart, I told the vet that it was time to euthanize him. She and Sharon both sadly agreed.
This is the fifth time I've had to euthanize a pet. Every other time, the decision was clear; they were in pain and suffering and had no quality of life left. Tater was purring - even as they put in his IV. As bad as things were, he didn't indicate that he has been in pain. He had slown down a lot,and slept most of the time, but he still ate and drank and purred so loudly that you couldn't believe anything could be wrong. But my once robust 25 pound kitty was down to 12.4 pounds, and as horrible as it felt, keeping him alive would have been incredibly selfish of me.
Life is so unfair. Things have been so hard lately. I can't stand any more loss or pain. I know that AI did the right thing. I know that if Brian had been here to help me with this decision, we would have done the same thing, and then we would have come home and cried together. I don't want to be selfish, but I want a break.
Today I was supposed to be in Fort Wayne attending my niece's wedding. Instead, I am home recuperating from another back surgery, and mourning the sweetest cat I have ever known. I have missed so many celebrations lately, and have dealt with so much loss. This just isn't the way life is supposed to be.
Goodbye, my Sweet Tater. I will miss you so much.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Stuck
My life is starting to feel like one pathetic bad joke. I just want a break from it. Bad luck, bad circumstance, bad turn of fate. I'm so tired of it all.
Jokes on me.
Jokes on me.
Monday, September 1, 2014
can't rationalize it away
I'm depressed. I'm sad, lonely, exhausted, and finding it hard to rationalize away some crushing feelings of despair.
I come home from the hospital yesterday. I had five friends come visit today, and several others call or email, and I know that I'm so lucky to have so many people who genuinely care about me, but I'm depressed. I feel like I have to put on a smile and a sunny disposition, but I just want to cry. I want to curl up and hide from the world and just stop feeling, stop pretending, stop putting on a good face for others and just allow myself to be genuine in my pain and grief.
Things have been hard. Too hard, and I feel like people either over or underestimate me. They assume that I can manage with little help, or that I'm a wuss with no tolerance for pain. I have a lot of tollerance for pain, but my pain before surgery was unbearable. I do the best I can, but I do need help. The hardest part of all this, the biggest challenge is coping alone without Brian. Waking up alone every morning, turning out the lights alone every night.
I loved being married. I loved being a wife and partner. I hate facing every day and every new challenge alone. Some days are better than others, but I'm really starting to doubt that things will ever truly feel OK again.
I come home from the hospital yesterday. I had five friends come visit today, and several others call or email, and I know that I'm so lucky to have so many people who genuinely care about me, but I'm depressed. I feel like I have to put on a smile and a sunny disposition, but I just want to cry. I want to curl up and hide from the world and just stop feeling, stop pretending, stop putting on a good face for others and just allow myself to be genuine in my pain and grief.
Things have been hard. Too hard, and I feel like people either over or underestimate me. They assume that I can manage with little help, or that I'm a wuss with no tolerance for pain. I have a lot of tollerance for pain, but my pain before surgery was unbearable. I do the best I can, but I do need help. The hardest part of all this, the biggest challenge is coping alone without Brian. Waking up alone every morning, turning out the lights alone every night.
I loved being married. I loved being a wife and partner. I hate facing every day and every new challenge alone. Some days are better than others, but I'm really starting to doubt that things will ever truly feel OK again.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Going Home
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.
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.
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.
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