I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. As I saw the moonshine cast upon the fresh snow making my path home sparkle, my heart felt heavy. My heart is always heavy these days. But as I noticed the moon, it became even weightier. I wondered if I would ever look at the moon with joy again. Now, when I see the moon I am taken back to that night. The night I drove to the hospital in the back of my Audi, with a policeman driving. I stared at the moon. We were following your ambulance. I hadn't cried yet at that point. Adrenaline was surging. When I'd seen you wheeled out of our front door, on a stretcher, they'd said you had a faint pulse. There was hope. I stared at the moon. My mind raced. I thought of so many things and somehow also nothing at all. I clutched something. I don't remember what it was. My purse? My phone? Your wallet? Kevin's hand? A stone? I don't know. But I know I was looking at the moon. I know I was praying to the moon.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Carnival
Last night I dreamt that I was at a carnival. I am there with Kevin. You had broken up with me via a phone call. You had rang and said "I need some space." And that was it, you and I hadn't spoken in a week. Kevin and I are wandering around the fair together. I am being social and chatting with friends. I am eating carnival food, riding rides, trying to enjoy nature, and distract myself. After finishing up a ride, I run into a guy friend who buys me a very pretty dress. I walk into the dressing room and try it on. When I see myself in the mirror, I am hit with a wave of devastation. You are the one who is supposed to be admiring me in dresses. I realize I am not OK. I can't fake happiness. The carnival is no longer a distraction. I start panicking to Kevin. I tell him, "I must call him! He can't just break up with me over nothing by the phone! It doesn't make any sense? I need to know why. I need to talk to him." I headed off to call you and then I woke up before hearing your voice or your reason.
The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.
I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.
I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.
I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.
I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.
I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.
I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.
I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.
I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.
I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.
The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.
I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.
I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.
I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.
I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.
I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.
I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.
I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.
I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.
I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.
Grief Etiquette
I've never learned very much about etiquette. I've gotten the basics over the years: elbows off the table, proper placement of silverware, don't sneeze on someone's face, no farting on airplanes or in elevators (both of which you rarely followed), what's appropriate cocktail attire, no white after Labor Day unless you live in the South, don't talk on your mobile at a restaurant, chew with your mouth closed, don't cuss in front of children – I mean, I can get by. Sometimes I can really fake it and appear quite classy. Other times, I can break the rules with the best of them.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
Thin Skin
I woke up this morning at 5:45 am to the sounds of the call-to-prayer here in Marrakech, Morocco. As my mind awoke from sad and longing dreams, I realize I'd drifted off to sleep last night without doing my own prayers and gratitude. It was almost as if the alarm had awoken me as a reminder of my own need for prayer and meditation. So as the Muslims around the city kneeled on their prayer rugs and bowed to their Allah, I prayed to my God too. While there any many different names: Allah, God, Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mother Earth, the Universe... in my opinion, it is the exact same essence.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
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