Did you know grief was once considered a mental
illness? In some circles it still is. My name just came up for jury duty at the
Superior Court in downtown Phoenix. There are all kinds of things which make
this kind of civic duty really difficult for me under any conditions, especially in
Phoenix in August. I asked to be excused, explaining that I have recently lost
my husband and I’m not up for the stress of jury duty right now. A judge
reviewed my request and gave me a sixty or ninety day extension to get over it—my
choice. He has a job to do and he needs jurors to do it. He didn’t care that I
don’t care.
What would caring look like if it poked its
little head out of my soul to check for its shadow? It would look like cooking
healthy food for myself again. Or cooking anything for myself, which would save
me money as well as calories. But do I care? Not enough to do it.
It would look like having fun again. Playing cards and games or staying in a cabin in the mountains or traveling to the
ocean or going to see a movie. Even going out to eat with someone. The problem
is those are all the things Rob and I did together. Everything reminds me of
what we once had. What I once had. Having fun on my own doesn’t have the same
appeal as it does when you’re doing it with your best friend.
It would look like going back to a gym. Taking risks.
Finding a church. Showing up for Meetup groups instead of just signing up
online and staying home anyway. Finishing at least one of the two novels I
started back when I locked myself in the office to type while Rob watched a
movie in his mancave. Finishing the quilt we started together during the
lockdown, made from all his fire department shirt logos. Even simply watering the thirsty plants outside my window.
The longer this goes on, this interminable sorrow and the
in-my-face change that makes up my life now, the harder it is to get my butt in
gear and locate a direction that feels familiar to me. I’ve given up on “finding
my purpose.” It’s too transient and vague. Too big and too vast. Too exhausting
and obvious—if Rob were still here and we still had the life we’d only just begun
as “mountain people”, there’d already be a purpose in place, a dream unfolding,
discoveries and fun happening. Together.
It's the “together” part that is tripping me up. Everything
in our world, our culture, is built around couples. Two for one specials at
Dairy Queen are hard to cash in on if you’re alone in the drive-thru. Getting
my hair and nails done doesn’t get me a dinner out. It just empties my bank
account. If I could say anything positive about living alone it’s that I have
new empathy for singles who’ve been on this path for decades. They know this is
a couples’ world. There’s no new life without both males and females. No baby
birds. No baby people. No flowering plants. New tomatoes on the vine. No Hallmark
plots. No date nights. No two-seater cars. No reason for Valentine’s Day.
Some may think it’s wrong to say that my identity was
us. Now there is no us. Spiritual connection doesn’t count when you wake up
with a bad dream and no one is there to put an arm around you. Comforting memories
don’t cut it when the doctor removes another melanoma from your body. Mealtimes
lose their flavor when you eat all of them alone and no one is there to thank
you for cooking. Meteor showers aren’t worth getting up for when you stand in
the backyard by yourself. There’s no one here to grin and follow me out the
door when I announce, “I can see a thunderstorm in the distance, Baby! Let’s go
find it!”
I know this is part of “life” even though it’s brought on by
death. We’re all terminal, Rob used to remind me. We all have an expiration
date. Sooner or later we’ll all lose someone we love like our own lives and our
hearts will break, perhaps forever.
There’s no easy way around this because the only way
through it is through it. No shortcuts. “It takes as long as it takes.” Maybe I’m
just tired. Maybe I need to move to France. Or a convent. I’m tired of trying to figure out things on
my own. Remembering to rotate the tires and change the oil and find a tall
person to switch out light bulbs and a/c filters. It scares me to face my fears
alone or risk sounding stupid to someone unfamiliar with my neuroses. Rob knew
what a lunatic I am. There’s a lot of comfort in that kind of acceptance and a
lot of fear in trusting the messy in my life to anyone else.
It's just lonely here in widowland. On top of missing
Rob and doing whatever it takes to survive, including eating things that are
awful for me and going broke on Kleenex, adding my grief counselor as a beneficiary
in my trust and posting short, sad blogs here instead of finishing that silly
novel that may never get published—every single thing I do every single day I
do by myself.
I’m not a complete hermit, though. Talking on the
phone with friends and family is always a bright spot in my day. Unless I’ve
talked too long to too many and then I’m worn out. Still, I told my daughter
last night that I think I’m turning into an introverted poop. I want to escape
the house just like I've always needed to do, and I also don’t want to put on
mascara and make myself look presentable enough to do it. I think they call
that ambiguous. Or broken. I just can’t get my engine to fire so I can get
going again.
On top of everything else that’s not working the way
it used to, I think my internal battery is dead.
I know this isn’t everyone’s story who has lost their
husband. Everyone grieves differently, I’ve been told in soothing tones
by those who’ve never been here. Some days are better than others. Some moments
I almost feel like me again. Sometimes I force myself to face my fears, plan a
trip that includes driving a few hundred miles by myself, and continue the
love of road trips that Rob and I relished doing together.
And other days I stand in front of an empty
refrigerator deciding which fast-food place I’ll let cook for me again.
It’s not like I’m the only person to feel this way. It’s
not like I’m not trying to care. I’m still talking to my counselor and
journaling my feelings and going out in public and crying when I need to and
opening the curtains and breathing in fresh air and hugging my kids and
grandbabies and hoping for a brighter day and believing that Jesus will never
stop holding me while realizing He knows what it feels like to be human.
It’s nothing to worry about.
