Sharing Grief

The mantle of grief can be as weighty as it can be light. Layers of it feek like thick, wet, felt-wool. Itchy. Dense. Uncomfortable. Other layers soothe,like wispy strands of gossamer silk gently skimming over the surface of ones skin.

It is 12 weeks today. 3 months. Almost to the day.

It seems like so much longer.

Snapshot memories fly at me from the strangest of places.

Driving south the other day, I realized that the last time I drove this route was the last time I went to the hospital ...

Random landmarks & signposts would take me back to the 19 days that I made that trip - each direction coming with its own set of thoughts. Energy. Anticipation. Hope.

Exhaustion.

a couple of days ago, I was tearing out crossword puzzles. Folding them in four. Putting them aside.

Last time I did that, I was going to the hospital ...

Nice things in the Bealls catalogue. Vic would really like those shoes ....

Oh, peanut butter ice cream. Great. Vic love peanut butter ...

I never realized just how programmed I had become. Just how automatic was automatic. Just how numb to the pain of it. Just how much responsibility I carried totally alone, those 5 years, day by day. I was the only, the one & only person in the whole world who was there for Vic. The only one that Vic totally knew had his back. That he totally trusted.

We prayed to G-d, Every night. Every day. A whole lot.

Now, I seen to function day to day with crash & burn frequency. Everything takes a monumental effort on my part. I push & push to get through all the most mundane things. It's confusing. At one point, I was superwoman. Now I'm just super depleted.

I just really want to be home. Alone but for the children. Home, where I am happiest & safest. A home oozing warmth & love. I find myself needing to keep my commitments to barest minimum. I am forced to say no more than ever. No, I just can't. All I really want & need is to be with our children. And the closest of friends who understand this difficult, discombobulating time.

As far as grief & loss go, I am one of the fortunate ones. Vic & I had a long time to talk about things. To have no regrets. To know that you said what you wanted to say. And got to repeat it, as I was able to with Vic many, many, many times ... it's a beautiful, beautiful gift. A great blessing.

That is why I do wrap myself in the loss, the grief, with love. I walk deep into my feelings & in there, I find comfort.

How strange & yet wonderful.

How freeing.

OK, do I have plague or something???

You know things are off when even your recycling is rejected!

Seriously. My recycling was left behind accompanied by a note, telling me to put this with that, the other with the following.

Goodness. I mean, there I have 2 huge bins brimming with things that can be turned into mulch & shoes & bags & siding (OK, I was reaching there). I took the time to forage in my trash compactor for the cans & paper & plastic the children throw out only to have it cast aside next to the road in my snazzy 'Wheel Away" recycling bin on wheels.

Le me recap the rejections of my last 2 days: first, my therapist sends me an email subject: "termination" - never a good way to start any communication: next day, recycling is rejected!

In a nut shell, from the lips of a nut case, with apologies to Cole Porter;

"Can't save myself - can't save the planet.
Let's call the whole thing off!