Messy

January 17th marked 11 months since Jason's death. The 19th was my birthday and despite a fun filled weekend,  I spent a good portion of the day sobbing. My mom won tickets to see Justin Timberlake and we didn't go. We both felt lousy. Greg came over, we bbq'd steaks, drank a few beers and I went to bed early.

You see, despite trying to distract myself (which worked somewhat... we had a lovely time, honestly) all of a sudden I heard a song that was playing in the car the day they did Jason's "exploratory" surgery and that was that. I couldn't stop thinking about that day. After a failed colonoscopy,  he was directly admitted to the hospital across the street but he refused to take an ambulance when he could very easily get in the car and have me drive 45 seconds to the hospital. We got in the car, him still woozy, and he made me pull over. "Lets take a minute" He said. We listened to the song and then he told me that while he was under, whatever they found, he trusted me to make the right decision, but he didn't want surgery twice. "If there is something in there, just tell them to get it out. I have too much going on, I can't be layed up for weeks." He was still in charge, still so vital... despite being in exhaustive pain all the time. We held each other, foreheads pressed together, whispering things that neither of us wanted to hear. He was scared. I was terrified, but I went into caregiver mode immediately, building him up, joking about sneaking him in a homemade cheeseburger once he was out of surgery.  He would never eat one of my meals again. We would never make love again. He slipped from me like he was drowning in quicksand... slowly and much too swiftly,  all at the same time, while I watched helpless from the shore.

I'm a mess right now.  My kids are a mess. My house is a mess. My Grandma Margie's dementia has progressed to the point that she can no longer be cared for in her home and she is moving to Idaho to be cared for in a (hopefully) expert facility that will give her the qaulity of life we can no longer give her. I know it is the best thing for her, but it's breaking my heart.

She is and has always been a huge part of my life. Every dance recital, every game my brothers played... she was there. Her home has always been my second home... watching Golden Girls and Grand Ol Opry at her house was a mainstay of my childhood.  She would tell us stories about growing up in Missouri,  make up bedtime adventure stories starring us that topped any book we were reading. She let me decorate her checks during church and her jewelry collection was my toy chest, dressing up in her snazzy dresses from the 60's. I lived with her for two years after high school and she was the best roomate I ever had. We would drink our coffee in the morning and she would pretend not to notice that I had been out till 3am the night before.  She is a sweet and fiery old bird, a fiercely independent woman who raised 5 incredible children all on her own in a time when that was just not done. She does not deserve what her brain is doing to her and it is horrifying to watch. I am terrified that the next time I see her, she will not know me anymore.

So this  is another of those ride it out times. Forgive me if I cancel plans and don't answer texts. I'm over here, gritting my teeth and just getting through the day. But I've been here before, and if I've learned anything from this last year it's that I will make it through.  Maybe not with grace, and not without some fresh scars, but I'll be there on the other side.

Writing Your Dreams

Ozzie had a really bad dream last night. The kind that wakes you up in terror, sweaty & shaking.  I sat with him,  holding his hand until he went back to sleep... and the dream came again.  And then it came again when he tried to take a nap later.

He's had a heavy heart the past week or so. He is acutely aware of what was happening this time last year and he is dreading his birthday,  which is just 3 says before his dad died.

We talked about his feelings and memories... the helplessness and terror he felt watching his beloved daddy slip away. How cheated he feels. How it just isn't fair.

But talking it out-while essential- just hasn't been enough to give his dreaming brain a rest. So, I thought we could try something different.

We went through the aspects of the dream, but we replaced each negative, scary thought with something positive.  Being chased in a dark room became a walk in the forest, enjoying the sights and sounds. A skeletal Jason collapsing in a heap became a healthy Jason, opening up his arms for a big hug and surrounded by light.

I had him close his eyes and take slow, deep breathes as we went over the new dream together. He is keeping it under his pillow in case he needs to find himself in that safe place again.  So far, it's working.

Bursting

I have been having a weird thing happen lately. I will be going about my day and suddenly my heart is beating too fast. My breath catches. There is a pounding in my ears and an overwhelming wave of panic hits me. Every time, the same phrase comes into my mind: Where is he?

It doesn't matter, really. He's not here. And suddenly the tears come, the ache settles in my chest and it all hits me, again and again.

Not Here.
NOT. HERE.

I talk about him all the time. With my kids, my family,  my friends. I cry and talk about him with my (endlessly patient, amazingly wonderful) boyfriend. With my therapist. With the women in my support group. With complete strangers, who somehow manage to touch upon a subject that brings him to mind.

I talk about him joyfully. I talk about him with awe. I talk about him while my mending heart breaks again, bleeds a little more.

As the one year mark of his death gets closer, I get flashbacks of this time last year. I think of all the things I could have... should have... done differently. I think about all of the moments we stole before he slipped away.

And I still hear it, every time. Where is he?

The Ugly

You've probably heard this before, but death is not pretty.  Much like birth it is messy, painful and laborious.  Something we all must go through, and yet in our society, so cloaked in shadow and fear that until you actually are present for the process of death you may not really comprehend it.

When I am lucky, I can remember the good times. Falling in love, raising our babies and sharing our small victories. The richness of two lives woven together, and all of the joy that brought... and still brings, even though there is a huge piece missing.

And then there are other times. Times that come out of nowhere, catch me fully awake as I go about my daily life or hit me as I fall asleep, my mind relaxed enough to let in a barrage of memories I cannot forget.

Blood everywhere.  Being told to buy red or black sheets and towels so that if my husband bled out at some point it would be less scary for our kids.

The gaps between breaths. The SOUND of someone you love struggling to do the one thing we all do effortlessly everyday.

Being handed a sheet of paper and told to make arrangements for the disposal of the body. As if that body wasn't still lying in my living room, struggling through another day.

A friend of mine, who had lost her first husband years earlier, tried to prepare me. "There will be a sound that comes out of you when it happens. You won't even know you are making it." She was right. I screamed that day in a way I never had before, even in the throes of pain so awful I thought I must be ripping apart. It was not a cry, I couldn't do that yet. I didn't make that sound again until 6 months after Jason died and the numbing fog I was in began to clear a little.  It is the sound of pure grief, and it is primal. It is horrifying. It is cleansing.

That is another grief I have had to contend with. I thought, hoped, that surely he would die peacefully.  That I could hold his hand and whisper my love to him and make it somehow easier to let go. Surely,  he deserved that. But it didn't happen that way. And those memories still claw their way to the forefront of my mind and leave me in a panic. They won't stop, but I hope someday they will become less powerful. I hope someday I can use them to help others in the same situation,  even if just a little.

Shadows

As expected,  this time of year is proving to be... difficult. Even though I have come a long way, healed up a little bit, gotten a little bit stronger... there are moments (who am I kidding... hours, days really) when I am knocked flat on my ass. It becomes hard to breathe, the dark clouds gather above me and every ounce of energy dries up and I'm left exhausted.  Motionless. Despairing. Everything is suddenly TOO MUCH. I hate being alone and yet I can't stand to be around people... especially the ones who love me. I am paranoid... why is everyone staring? What have I done now? How much of my crazy is showing through this carefully constructed facade? Everyone must think I'm stupid, pathetic. Or maybe I'm doing too well... maybe I don't care anymore. The numbness that has become such a familiar companion comes rushing back and even a smile is too hard to fake. Look at me, I'm still going. I'm even happy sometimes. I'm a monster.

I know that isn't true. I'm not fine and I am, at the same time. And that is ok. I can be despondent and sad and angry at the very same time that I feel immense gratitude and joy and comfort. That is the nature of this beast.

Because there is such a delicate balance.  Sometimes I am perfectly level and I stand poised like an amazon warrior and revel in my own strength. Fuck you universe... you won't ever stop me. I can do anything, I am fearless. And other times someone gives me a hug and I crumple, torn and broken and  burning in the fire of my loss... and all I still have left to lose.  I am terrified. And confused.  And confident that I will be ok. That my children will be fine. That I can do this, I can still make my life count. I have so much to give.

I need patience, so much patience and understanding.  Because getting through the funeral and all the hubbub surrounding the first few months? I feel like that is the easy part. There comes a time, months later, when the shock has mostly worn off. When everyone around you, including yourself,  just wants you to get better. When those who love you have just a little less compassion.... and it is totally understandable. When you are expected to carry on. And that is the hard part. When you look normal and you feel mostly ok, but in reality the REALNESS of what has happened becomes concrete. This is it. This is not a movie or a dream. You will not be waking up from this. Nothing will ever be normal again. You know something that other people, people fortunate enough to not have experienced the utter destruction of a life, can't know: you are alone in this. We all are, really. No outside thing, person or place can fix you. Only you can grieve and struggle and hurt and grow. Only you can take a deep breathe and convince the monster in your head that you may be hurting and you may be sad but you are still in charge. You will be the one who decides how this will play out. You will be the one that saves yourself.

Thanksgiving

My son told me something the other day,  something that shocked me in its dual simplicity and complexity.  We were talking about Thanksgiving and the holidays in general and I was trying to convey the idea that even though the day will be sad and we will miss Jason,  it doesn't have to be a day of abject misery. I was trying to convince myself more than him. He turned to me and said "Mom, it's just a day. We've been living everyday without Dad."

He is right. Every day brings a reminder. Every day is difficult.  And every day, we find joy and happiness and we keep on going. To steep ourselves in sadness and wallow in what is missing is unhealthy.  It blocks out what we have learned from this, belittles the everyday struggles we've overcome. It would be easy to settle in bitterness and see our lives only through the lens of all that we have lost... and doing that, it feels like the worst possible way to honor Jason.

I am so thankful that I had him for as long as I did. I am thankful that my children had a father who loved them enough to teach them how to be practical, resilient and to see the bigger picture.  I am thankful for his love and all that he taught me. I am thankful that he respected me and believed in me... even when I didn't.  I am so thankful that I got to care for him and comfort him as he left us, that I got to be his hero when he needed one the most. I am thankful that most days I wake up greatful for each new day knowing that, despite it all, I am strong enough to keep going. I'm thankful that I know what real love is. I am so, so thankful, even in my grief and sadness.

Junk in the Trunk

Ok, taking a brief detour from the sad that is this blog to talk about something silly.

(Sidenote: Yesterday was our first Halloween... and it was tough. I was a little blindsided by how hard it hit me, but, I dealt with it and ended the day with a smile.  The kids had fun, we talked a lot about Jason and his insatiable pb cup habit & had some laughs. So, all is well.)

When Jason started to get sick,  I lost my appetite. That has never happened to me before,  I usually stress eat. Caring for him, I had to be reminded and sometimes forced to eat. And when he died it just got worse. Nothing tasted good,  nothing sounded good. This went on until about 6 weeks ago, when I noticed that I was HUNGRY again. Hallelujah!  I love food, always have and always will, and I really missed enjoying eating. But.... the side affect of all that non eating was a significant weight loss. I got kinda... skinny. None of my underwear,  pants or bras fit anymore. I continuously got told how good I looked...which kinda pissed me off. Everytime I heard that I wanted to scream! I look skeletal!  I don't feel good and I have headaches all the time! I would have traded every single pound for one more minute with my husband. But whatever,  it WAS fun shopping for new, smaller clothes. It was kinda neat to see my hipbones again.

But... (pun intended) I kinda missed my boobs. And my butt. And even, just a little,  having nice round hips and my belly. I've never been a waif. Ive often joked that I have the opposite of an eating disorder,  because I would look in the mirror and think "Damn... I look good", even at my chubbiest. And my husband never complained about my body... he dubbed pregnancy and pms "titty fairy" time because um, well, yeah. The girls always got big. I still got hit on. Barring normal periods of "I'm a disgusting sausage" I've worked hard at being comfortable in my skin, no matter the size. I really would rather be happy, funny and interesting than  stick thin. Just sayin'.

So, yeah. My appetite is back, with a vengeance.  My goal is moderation and consistent exercise. Adding muscle and feeling good. And goddammit,  enjoying my bacon cheeseburger on a pretzel bun when the mood strikes!  :)