Cheap Medicine

My favorite kind of blog to write is a funny one. And if you get my sense of humor, you are my tribe. My people. My lifeline. If you don’t get my sense of humor, that’s ok. I might need more practice.

I could be a lot funnier if I wasn’t always so worried about offending people who recognize themselves inside my stories. But these are the only stories I know. I’m not that good at making things up, and what’s funnier than real life anyway?

In the last three and a half years since Rob decided living with Jesus would be less stressful than living with me (don’t be offended – I’m just stating the obvious), I’ve tried a variety of ways to cope with my grief. I’ve crossed a few things off the list because they don’t appeal to me or come at too high a cost, such as taking up drinking or driving off a cliff, but some of the more socially acceptable options are things I’ve explored. I met with a counselor every week for almost three years until one of them retired (suspicious timing) and the other one got to yawning a lot while I was talking. It seemed like we both needed a break at that point. Looks like I not only wear out friends, but also professionals.

I’ve read trusted authors and questionable authors and wasted a lot of money on books that Goodwill sold for more than I originally paid for them. I’ve lost a lot of sleep staying up late while I watched YouTube videos about the afterlife and listening to the sad stories of other widows/widowers. (Some people are really a downer.) I also found one or two women who had useful things to say. I joined a writing group for grievers which was profoundly helpful and resulted in a long-lasting friendship still going to this day. That was a win. And recently I’ve joined a one-year program via zoom where I meet with other widows for validation and pick up some useful tips on survival.

I’ve eaten too much and drunk too little water. I’ve tossed out retail therapy because there’s no one around to admire my good taste or complain about my spending habits. However, online gadgets arrive regularly at my front door, are usually a waste of money, but are also a great source of blog inspiration. I’ve depleted a few friends, no condemnation to those on hiatus, and made a couple of new ones who probably question their common sense when it comes to including me in their circles. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words, cried more tears than that, and driven my new truck nearly into the ground trying to hang on to the thing Rob and I enjoyed most in life, seeing the country and being with loved ones.

But my heart still hurts. And I still stand in an empty room where, from time to time, I cry out, “Where are you?” Because I can’t visualize the dimension where he lives now, and God won’t let me take a peek. Rude.

Advice is everywhere on how to survive life after loss. Some of it comforts, some of it is garbage. Author and counselor Megan Devine (“It’s Ok That You’re Not Ok”) spent years telling brokenhearted women how to overcome the loss of their spouses, utilizing all the techniques she learned in higher education. But the day her husband drowned right in front of her, she threw out all her books, shut down her counseling practice, and came out on the other side with an entirely different view of what does and doesn’t work. Experience made the difference, so I feel qualified to have a strong opinion about grief as a widow even without having a college degree.

Free advice abounds, which saves me a lot of money but is sometimes only worth the price I paid for it. I’ve been told to focus on positive energy. Distract myself. Stay busy. Start dating. Remember the good times. Be thankful I had Rob for as long as I did. Find meaning in my loss.  Change the subject. Help out the less fortunate. Get my eyes off myself. Keep his memory alive. Do yoga. Stay mindful and present. Practice meditation. Trust the Lord. Find a job. Stop complaining. Get more sleep. Make exercise a priority. And fresh air. And water. Clean up your diet and eat healthy food.

It’s more exhausting trying to get over my grief than to simply live with it.

I am a list person. I journal a lot and probably post things on my blog that I shouldn’t. But there are lists I don’t love, like the currently popular practice of gratitude journals (gag me). I can’t. I’m grateful for butterflies and sunsets like everyone else, but no. Just no. I don’t make lists of my faults and old wounds and burn them in the fireplace, either. (I don’t even have a fireplace, which helps.) I don’t set goals or read inspirational books about overcoming. (Who needs that kind of toxic positivity?) I’m not a self-helper. Some would agree and go so far as to say that I need a lot of help. Hard to argue with that one.

But I love to laugh. And last week I ran across an idea for keeping a list that finally appealed to me. Every day write down three funny things you notice.

I love this one. Everything is funny. It’s not too hard to find funny things. The challenging part is paying attention and maybe helping out the funny with your own little spin on it. And the other part, mentioned at the top of the page, is having the courage to point out funny things about being human. I’m up for the challenge, though.

This I can get in to. This is good medicine. This lifts my spirits and helps me process pain. Every humorist, or as Garrison Keillor calls it, “the business of humoristicism,” (even spellcheck didn’t recognize that one) finds the source of humor in personal pain. Ta da! I qualify again.

Keillor offers a few insights about the way funny works. Funny takes us by surprise. He said comedy is about absurdity and conflict and irony. Awesome! Permission to rub my hands together in glee and go for it.

fingernails on a keyboard . . . clickety clickety click . . .

the hum of a cheap, off-balance, overhead fan . . .

crickets chirping in boredom. . . .

I can’t think of anything.

But I will. I’m starting that list today. You just watch. I’m gonna be funny from now on, lift myself up from where I’ve fallen, and find my groove again. And even if, when the dust settles, I’m the only one still laughing, I’ll feel better. I’m not the only source of funny. I’m just one of the gang.

Find your funny somewhere. I promise you—it will save your life.

It’s saving mine.