Thursday, April 30, 2020

Back in your box, woman!

I planned to start my new and improved schedule today, but was unable to drift off until 4:00 AM, giving me a whopping three hours of sleep (and no dreams, of course, because why should I get even the tiny comfort that dreaming about Doug would give me?). I keep trying to plan things and set myself up for success (whatever the fuck that means when the only success I can imagine is being with my husband again), and the universe keeps refusing to cooperate.

And really, what's the point in planning anyway? I planned to have a long and happy marriage. I planned a trip this summer with my husband and our three cats. I planned to travel the world with the love of my life. But the universe looked at those plans and said "FUCK YOU, LADY."

Yesterday afternoon, I spent a little time trying to think of what I could do to shake things up, but anything I came up with is logistically impossible. Examples:

  • I hate this house. But renovating it isn't an option, because what I need is more space, but it's not like adding on a room would cut it: I'd need to drastically change the layout of the house in order to make this kitchen really work for me, and that would practically require tearing the whole damn thing down and building new - but I can't do that because I still have a mortgage on this place. Buying in Nashville is now off the table because of the upcoming 32% increase in property taxes. So I'm stuck in this house.
  • I thought about just buying an RV and hitting the road, since I can work from anywhere as long as I have high-speed internet. But I am not mechanically inclined (and therefore couldn't fix anything that broke), and I don't have a vehicle that could tow a camper, and oh yeah - it's dangerous to be out RVing alone without a navigator, and it's especially dangerous for a woman to be out in the middle of nowhere alone.
  • OK, so the living situation isn't something I can escape. Maybe take up a new hobby? Kayaking would be ideal, because it would get me out in nature, and I've always loved the water. But I'm a novice, so I'd need lessons, which I can't get because everything is closed because of COVID-19. And I have no way to transport a kayak, because I have a soft-top convertible (and inflatable kayaks are notoriously hard to handle and probably not a great idea around here, where there's so much debris in the lakes that could puncture an inflatable). Also, kayaking alone is a bad idea too, AND I HAVE NO PARTNER ANYMORE.
It doesn't matter what my exhaustion- and grief-addled brain comes up with as a possible way to find SOMETHING to look forward to: too many obstacles for any of them.

I had a virtual session with Brooke this morning, and I spent most of it crying hysterically, which is pretty much how I've been since I woke up this morning. And it's because I'm TRAPPED. Every day is the same: I wake up crying, I spend the day and evening alternately crying, furious, or vegetative, and then I go to bed crying some more.

I'm trapped in this life I don't even want, with no way to escape. Even Sun Tzu recognized that's a problem: in The Art of War, he wrote, "When you surround an army, leave an outlet free. Do not press a desperate foe too hard." Sun Tzu knew that, when you back someone into a corner where they have nothing left to lose, they become dangerous. Well, here I am: trapped, desperate, and with nothing left to lose. But I'm so useless that I can't even do anything about that.

I guess I'll go back to crying now, because that's my life: cry, scream, vegetate, repeat. I'm in Hell, with no way out.

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Everything but the kitchen sink

Oh, Grace the Grief Counselor... bless her heart. Telling me not to think about the future is like telling someone not to think about pink elephants: tell yourself "don't think about this thing," and it's the one thing that WILL CEMENT ITSELF IN YOUR BRAIN and never want to leave. I'm trying not to think about the future, but it's all I can think about now: my empty, lonely, sad, pathetic, and pitiable future.

I managed six hours of sleep last night. No dreams, and I still don't feel rested, which is no doubt due to the fact that I haven't had a good night's sleep in 70 days. I don't remember being this tired when I had a NEWBORN in the house, FFS.

I've found myself not even able to do any real grief work for most of this past week; instead, I'm alternating periods of crying/screaming/wailing with distractions (mostly Netflix and Hulu). I'm feeling plenty, but I'm not actually processing anything, and that's not good.

I continue to struggle with wanting to die so I can be with Doug: to paraphrase Tony in After Life, I'd rather be nowhere with Doug than somewhere without him. And that internal battle has become more challenging as more and more people have dropped away and stopped reaching out (not a complaint; an observation). There are a few people who continue to message me and text me, and I appreciate them so much, even if it IS just pity that's driving them. And I can't imagine it's anything BUT pity, because it's not as though I'm in any way useful to ANYONE these days: I'm not fun anymore, I don't have insightful commentary on the news of the day anymore, I have no good advice to give to anyone anymore... I don't blame people for avoiding me. I wish I could avoid me. Alas, the only way I can think of to do that would be to get drunk and stay that way, and I'm avoiding overindulging in booze because - while I'm certainly not at my cognitive best - I know that would be dangerous.

My short-term disability has been approved through May 31, and I think that's about as far as it'll go, so it's time for me to start working on ways to get my shit together enough that I can get back to work by then. I know I won't be at full capacity by then - I may NEVER be, but I'm not allowed to think about that. But I can't sit here forever waiting to die, tempting though that is. Thanks for ignoring my multiple requests over the past few years to get life insurance, my love! (Yes, that was sarcasm; if Doug had been insured, maybe money would be the one thing I WOULDN'T have to stress about, but why should I get ANYTHING easy, right?)

So, I've taken another stab at putting together a schedule - at least for weekdays. I need to get some structure into my days, and I need to start doing some things for myself. It's clear that the universe isn't going to just let me will myself to die, so if I'm going to be stuck here, I have to prepare to enter the world again, whether I want to or not.

I've got my schedule time-boxed, but it's not carved in stone. What's important is that I'm blocking out time to do the following:

  • Meditate three times a day: 20 minutes first thing in the morning, 20 minutes midday, 20 minutes at bedtime
  • 30 minutes a day of exercise
  • Four hours a day of work (that may be grief work, or it may be housework, or it may be any combination of the above)
  • Two hours a day of targeted (grief-related) reading
  • 90 minutes a day that's "wildcard" time (just do whatever I feel like doing)
  • Five hours a day of recreation (that might be recreational reading, or watching something on Netflix or Hulu, or painting)
  • One hour a day of routine chores
Will I actually adhere to this schedule? Hell if I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and if there's going to be any chance that I can ever be a functional adult again, I have to give it a shot.

None of what I've written here should be interpreted to mean that I'm doing any better, or that I've found my will to live. Because I'm not, and I haven't. I have zero hope that I'm ever going to feel better. I have zero hope that I'll ever do anything but go through the motions of having a life even though I don't really. I've accepted that my remaining time in this life will be nothing but miserable. All I'm doing here is trying to fill that time.


Tuesday, April 28, 2020

From being the star to being an extra

I haven't written in days; I've been too paralyzed by emotions raging out of control. And "raging" is the right word, because I've been mostly furious since I woke up Saturday morning. And when I say I've been furious, I mean it took every bit of willpower I have not to take the cast iron fireplace poker and break EVERY FUCKING THING IN MY  HOUSE. This would be a great time to take up boxing; alas, there no boxing gyms near me (that I know of), and gyms are closed anyway, so...

What am I so angry about? For starters, the fact that I've had to deal with SO MUCH loss in the past 68 days: Doug, Prowler, my future, my intelligence, my very identity, my ability to socialize. Then there's the fact that the people who most WANT to help, can't: my sister has asked me several times to go and visit her and her family. But here's the thing: there's NOTHING that will be beneficial about being with my sister and her grown kids, with all their long, happy marriages like the one I'll never get to have with my husband. It would feel like everybody is rubbing their happiness in my face: "Look how happy WE are! AND YOU'RE ALL ALONE NOW AND FOR THE REST OF YOUR PATHETIC, LONELY LIFE." Of course I know that's not what they're actually doing, but the intent isn't the issue; the FACT is the issue: I will never get to have the happiness that they have, and yeah - it pisses me off. A LOT.

I'm angry that the universe has played this most horrible prank on me, teasing me with a great love and then stealing it from me and leaving me alone.

I'm angry that I'm so weak and pathetic that I can't get it together and start moving forward.

I'm angry that people are bitching and moaning about the fucking gray roots in their hair because of the COVID-19 restrictions, meanwhile they get to sleep next to their spouses every night. (Yes, I recognize that everyone has problems, and I try to be understanding, but on the inside, it's HARD not to be resentful of people who are complaining about temporary problems when my husband is dead forever.)

I'm angry that the Futurama suicide booths aren't a real thing, because I'd be ALL OVER that shit.

I'm angry that I can't just pick up and run away, but what would be the point anyway? I'd still be lonely and sad and angry, just in a different place.

I'm angry that I can't see ANY way to be happy without Doug.

I am REALLY FUCKING ANGRY that, on Saturday, I could hear Prowler walking in the kitchen (you'll remember that I had to put Prowler down on Friday). So I got a sign from PROWLER, but still nothing from Doug? WHAT THE FUCK?!? Again: being rejected by my dead husband whom I love so much? That's agony.

And before some armchair psychologist jumps in and says that this represents "progress" to the "anger stage" of grief, let me stop you right there: Kubler-Ross came up with those stages in relation to people who are terminally ill and how they work through it to come to acceptance of THEIR OWN coming deaths. It was NEVER intended to be used to represent how grief works for those of us grieving the loss of a loved one, and even if it WERE, those "stages" of grief are not linear. So, the past few days I've been angry. Tomorrow, I may be nothing but a meat bag of tears again.

I've been tossed by a grief tsunami over and over again for 68 days now. I take no pleasure in ANYTHING. Going for a walk in the sunshine SHOULD feel good; I can feel the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze; I can hear the birds singing; I can smell the flowers. I can feel all those things, but they don't feel good; they don't elicit any kind of emotional response.

In news that shouldn't really be news to anyone, Grace the Grief Counselor has concluded that my grief is complicated by my anxiety about the future (ya THINK?!?). To that end, she has extracted from me a promise that I will at least attempt not to allow myself to think about the future until September 7 (Labor Day; there's no real significance to that date at all: I just picked it at random). And she gave me some techniques to use to get me back to thinking about rightthissecond instead of two years from now.

Will it work? I don't know. I mean, even if all I think about is rightthissecond, the problem is that, rightthissecond, I'm miserable and I don't want to be here. So I'm not really sure that it's going to make a difference beyond "ooh, rightthissecond I feel like shit, so I'll distract myself."

I'm just so very tired of it all. I want my life back. I want my husband back. I want to cook him dinner, and bring him coffee, and sleep next to him, and talk to him, and do everything with him, and do nothing with him.

But if I can't have anything I want - and I can't - what am I supposed to do? How does being in rightthissecond help me when every rightthissecond is miserable because I want what I can't have?

I was the lead in Doug's story, but I'm not that anymore, and I won't be again; I'm now just a bit player in a lot of people's stories. And that's just not good enough for me.

Friday, April 24, 2020

And another death

I was planning on going to sleep - I was up most of the night - but I have to get this out first, because it's all just too much. This is gonna be some stream-of-consciousness stuff, so please forego any temptation to judge any spelling or grammatical errors. While you're at it, resist the temptation to judge my attitude, although I frankly don't really care if you like my attitude, so on second thought, go for it:

This is Prowler, AKA Prowler Douglas Allen, AKA Marshal Prowler.




When Doug and I started dating, Prowler was 15 years old. He was a BIG boy, weighing in at 15 lbs. He was affectionate (in that he wanted to be petted all the time), and yet cranky (he'd scratch you if you stopped petting him). He earned the nickname "Marshal Prowler" because he patrolled the perimeter of the house each evening, loudly warning away any stray cats that might approach the front or back door.

Prowler could also speak, something that Doug insisted was true, but which I doubted. Until late one night when we'd been dating a few months, and I heard someone talking downstairs. I thought Doug was being robbed until I realized the "intruder" was saying, "HELLO! PROWLER!" In later years, Prowler added "NOW!" to his vocabulary, usually at mealtime.

Over the past year and a bit, Prowler had been losing weight, as happens with elderly cats. By late last summer, that escalated, and Prowler was diagnosed with pancreatitis, for which he took several medications daily.

Last week, Prowler took to climbing into my lap. This was not typical behavior for him: Prowler was affectionate, but not a lap kitty. So I knew his time here was drawing to a close. Yesterday, Prowler stopped eating and drinking.

And so, this morning, I took my beautiful boy - the one pet who hasn't left my side since Doug died; my crochety 19-year-old man - to the vet, where I set him free of the body that was failing him.

I'm alternating between crying hysterically and screaming in fury. I posted about this in one the grief groups to which I belong on Facebook - groups where we talk ALL THE TIME about the importance of not saying foolish platitudes and just letting folks sit in their grief. And do you know what I got? Mostly good stuff, but also plenty of "at least he's with Doug now" and "he's not hurting anymore" AND DO YOU PEOPLE REALLY THINK THAT FUCKING HELPS?

I am so over it. Even just hearing "I'm sorry" grates, because - even though I know people mean it - the fact is that it's something people say and then they go on with their lives.

I AM FUCKING SICK TO DEATH OF THE FACT THAT EVERYONE ELSE GETS TO GO ON WITH THEIR LIVES WHEN I DON'T FUCKING HAVE ONE ANYMORE AND I'M POWERLESS TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. 

HOW MUCH MORE DO I HAVE TO SUFFER?

At this moment, I hate everyone. I hate everything. Westley in The Princess Bride was right: life IS pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

And I'm fucking OVER it.

Thursday, April 23, 2020

The hardest day yet

As of today, I've been Doug's widow exactly half as long as I was his wife.

I can't breathe.

In the books of our lives, the chapter that Doug and I shared was so very brief. What I wouldn't give to have had the 20 years we promised each other. But we didn't get that. We didn't even get one year as husband and wife; we got exactly 126 days. And while our love absolutely transcended time, the fact remains that in this plane of existence, time is linear, and we were able to share very little of that time.

Is that why Doug hasn't come to see me yet? Is it that, in the grand scheme of things, our love really was small to him? Has he already forgotten me? Did he have the choice to stay wherever he went or return home to me and did he choose to stay?

Those are just a few of the many thoughts that keep me from sleeping each night: maybe he's forgotten me already. Maybe he's happy to be free of me.

People keep saying that it will get "better" or "easier," but they don't know that. They say it because it's what people say, but that doesn't make it true. What will ever be "better" about not having my love? What will ever be "easier" when I have to spend my days and my nights alone? What am I living for? To keep working until I die, spending my evenings and my weekends doing nothing but missing my husband?

That's not a life. This isn't a life. This isn't even a pale imitation of a life. The only thing I can think of that would give me any hope would be if Doug could come to me and make it clear that he still loves me, that we'll be together again someday, that he's still with me, and that he wants me to find a way to live and be happy in a world without him in it.

But that's not happening, and if I'm going to stay here and suffer for years only to end up without him anyway, then what am I hanging on for? Because other people will miss me? Sure, they will, but not like I miss Doug. The only person who would miss me that much is the one person who's already gone. I'm hanging on for the hope that maybe someday I won't want to cry all the time? I feel about that roughly the same way I feel about the old Survivor challenges: tell me to eat a grub and I'll GET a million dollars? Sure! Tell me to eat a grub so that I have a CHANCE of getting a million dollars? Umm, no. Thanks.

I'll keep doing everything I'm supposed to do, even though it hasn't helped even the tiniest bit. I'll keep doing it because that's what's expected. I'll keep doing it even though every day that passes I become more alone (because it seems that, to everyone who isn't me, grief has a very short shelf life), more scared, and more certain that this is how I'm going to feel forever.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Bereavement math revisited

I'm drowning in milestones:

  • April 4: Doug's 67th birthday - his first as my husband - which we didn't get to celebrate
  • April 17: Six months since our wedding; two months since his surgery
  • April 19: Two months since the last day I thought Doug would come home to me
  • April 20: Two months since Doug died
  • April 23 (tomorrow): I'll have been a widow exactly half as long as I was Doug's wife
  • April 24 (Friday): It'll be exactly 30 years since my mother had the heart attack that led to her death
I woke up at 6:45 this morning, after too-few hours of too-restless sleep (thanks, Marmalade and Houdini, for chasing that stupid toy around the house all night!), and with no dreams. Again. I scooped the litter boxes, took the trash out to the curb, walked the dog, fed all the animals, and did my first day writing prompt for Writing Your Grief. Then I checked the status of my short-term disability claim (which was initially approved only through April 19, but my therapist submitted paperwork on Friday recommending an extension). Today is Wednesday, and I still have no update: it's been sent for nursing review, so I have no idea whether I'm even getting paid now. I SHOULD care about that, but what's money? What do I care if end up I losing my house, when I've already lost EVERYTHING?

And now, I have another day to fill, and no idea how to fill it. I could take a walk, and maybe I'll get it together enough to do that. I could write more, and I probably will later. I could try - again - to tackle the prologue to The Hero with a Thousand Faces, but if my current cognitive abilities are any indication, that's not going to go well. I could work through the next set of exercises in The Grief Recovery Handbook, and maybe I'll try that, but... it all just feels like busy work. I'm going through the motions of processing my grief, but all I'm really doing is feeling it, over and over again. "Processing" indicates that something is actually happening, but I'm not seeing anything resembling healing happening here.

Tonight, I have plans to watch a lecture about Benjamin Franklin: there's an organization called Profs and Pints, which hosts meetings where college professors lecture on various topics. In our new, online-only world, they're virtual meetings. The old Kathleen loved that sort of thing. The new Kathleen is just trying to find ways to pass the time.

For now, Prowler wants to sit on my lap, so I'm going to put on some Bob Ross videos, put my feet up, put Prowler on my lap, and take a nap. Because the alternative is to dwell on what tomorrow represents, and how every day takes me further and further from the life I had and loved with Doug. And if I let myself dwell on that, I might lose whatever's left of my mind.

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

It was just a matter of time

NOTE: This post is not a complaint; it's an observation of my reality. So don't get pissy and defensive, mmmkay? Because it's not about you, and I won't take it kindly if you make it about you.

Yesterday was two months to the day since Doug died. It was a bad day, which was evident to anyone who follows me on Facebook and/or reads this blog. With all the people surrounding me who love me so much, you'd think that I would've been well supported yesterday, but not so much.

I got one text. I got no phone calls.

I knew this would happen eventually; I didn't expect it to happen this soon. I suppose that at least some folks are feeling like I should be doing better by now (spoiler alert: I'm not, and I hope you never find yourself in a position to understand just how very "not doing better" one is only two months after losing the love of their life). Or, if it's not that they're sick of listening to or reading about my misery, they're just living, as people do.

Again, I'm not saying any of this to complain. I'm saying it to illustrate just how fucking alone I am. Sure, if I reach out, people will try to make time for me. But they aren't reaching out anymore, because they have their lives to live.

I do not have a life to live.

I had my weekly session with Grace the Grief Counselor this morning, and we're at an impasse: she keeps trying to convince me that I can indeed find joy and meaning in life without Doug; I keep explaining that I don't care how much other joy, or other meaning I COULD find, because it doesn't matter if I don't have him.

And that's really what it boils down to: even if it were possible to find small packets of happiness here and there, none of that could ever be enough to balance the pain of living without the one person I loved most, who loved me most. If you were to look at it as a set of balancing scales, where joy is on one side of the scale and anguish is on the other, the pain of losing Doug weighs heavier than ANY amount of joy; the pain will always win.

I spent most of my life that I was made to be alone and live with a constant undercurrent of loneliness. And because that's all I ever knew, I could live with it. But Doug proved otherwise; I was NOT made to be alone; I was made to be in a warm, strong, happy relationship with a man I love more than I love myself, who loved me more than himself. THAT'S how I became fully myself; that's how I became the Kathleen who was able to love her life, even when things were difficult.

I don't have that anymore. I can't have it again, because he's gone. And it is colossally unfair that I have to stay here, alone and lonely, spending the rest of my days here wishing that I weren't. Grace keeps saying this despair isn't sustainable, but 61 days of it indicate otherwise.

I hurt. I'm tired of hurting. I miss Doug. I want Doug. I need Doug. I can't ever have him again.

Monday, April 20, 2020

There's NOTHING I wouldn't give

My love,

It's been 60 days since I last saw you. 60 days since I held your hand as your doctor and nurses fought to keep you with me. 60 days since I heard your heartbeat. 61 days since the last time you were able to hold my hand. 63 days since I last kissed you. 63 days since we last held each other. 63 days since you last told me you loved me.

I was overly ambitious and THOUGHT I'd be able to do some grief work today, but clearly, I wasn't thinking. All I've been able to do today is drown in you. I've read some of our old texts. I've looked at pictures of us. I've watched our wedding video. I've revisited our two weeks in paradise. I've revisited as many memories I can of the four years, four months, and four days we spent together (yes, I'm counting our first not-a-date).

This is not how it was supposed to be. The whole world has completely fallen apart since you died; my inner poet wants to believe that the whole world is grieving the loss of someone so kind, so gentle, so strong, and so loving.

But changed or not, the rest of the world has moved on. I know there are plenty of people who miss you, but even they have continued living. I, on the other hand, have not. I can't. How can I continue living when my reason for living is gone? How can I have a life without you, when you gave me a life and a love I never believed possible? How can I live without you?

I don't know why I'm still breathing. I don't want to be. I want to be with you, wherever that is. It's unbearable, being here without you. It's unbearable, not hearing your voice. It's unbearable, not seeing your face. It's unbearable, not being able to touch you. It's unbearable, sleeping without you. IT'S ALL UNBEARABLE WITHOUT YOU.

I'm doing the things I'm supposed to do, but nothing helps. Nothing eases the pain. Nothing eases the loneliness. Nothing makes me stop missing you. Nothing ever will, until we're together again.

I wish... I wish so many things. I wish you were here. But since you can't be here, I wish you would find a way to talk to me and let me know that you're okay, and that you're still with me, and that you still love me. If you could do that, MAYBE I could find a reason to try and live again. Without that - without some assurance that your love is still with me and we'll be together again someday - I don't know how I can live. What's the point of torturing myself every minute of every day if, at the end of it, it's all just nothing and I STILL won't have you?

Please, baby - please find me. In my dreams, when I meditate, when I'm crying myself to sleep, I don't care. Just find me and talk to me. I need you. I can't do this without you. You're my husband. You will always be my husband. You promised that you'd always be here for me. I know you can't do that physically, but if you CAN still be here for me, I need you to get here. I need you to let me know that you're here. I need to know that you still love me, and that we'll be together again.

I need you. I always will. Please talk to me. PLEASE. I'm begging you; find a way to talk to me.

Two months

Two months ago today, Doug's life came to an end. So did mine. Nothing that's happened in the past 60 days has convinced me that there's any reason whatsoever to believe that I can ever be happy again. No amount of love or friendship from the many wonderful people in my life can make up for what I no longer have - the love I hoped for, thought I'd never find, and then miraculously found, only to lose it before we had a chance to do even a fraction of what we planned together.

There's nothing for me here. I don't belong anywhere anymore. There's nothing for me to DO here. I still can't go back to work - honestly, the thought of it is about as appealing as taking a trip back to Hawaii without Doug, which is to say that it makes me nauseated. I just don't care about the career I've lovingly and diligently crafted over the past 26 years.

A friend is getting ready to direct a show that - until a few months ago - I would've KILLED to do; but now? I'm not sure if I even have the capacity to learn lines, let alone do justice to one of the most challenging roles in contemporary theatre. Not to mention that I don't know if I can possibly be on stage without Doug either right there next to me or in the audience. And I'm not sure I really care about that, either.

Every day is just another day I've managed to survive. For no reason, and with no happiness over having survived. All I do is pass the time and wish I were with Doug.

I have nothing to talk about with anyone anymore; I, who used to be interesting and fun, and always had something to say... all I can talk about now is my grief. I've been reduced to my essence, and it turns out that my essence is nothing but pain.

This is how I feel: life has gone on for absolutely everyone else, but I'm rooted where I am. Watching other people live. Knowing that I don't get to live anymore, not really. Not ever.


I'm going to do the work today that I'm supposed to do. Like I do as many days as I can. But every day that I do this work and it makes no difference is just another day that convinces me more and more that there's no point to any of it. Not for me.

Sunday, April 19, 2020

Doug's last good day

Exactly two months ago today, I sat and watched as Doug's nurse spent the day weaning him off all the vasopressors he'd been on for two days. It was a day in which Doug was awake and responsive and able to communicate. It was the last day I was able to tell him that I loved him and know that he heard me.

There was no way for me to know, at the time, that this wasn't a sign that things were moving in the right direction, but was instead the rally before dying that often happens. It was Doug's last good day. It was MY last good day. It was the last full day when I was a wife - a newlywed, looking forward to Doug getting off the ventilator and out of the hospital to recover so we could go to the beach house for two weeks this summer and start our world travels next year. It was the last day I was a whole person. It was the last day I was happy. It was the last day that I had the luxury of thinking my  life was worth living. Hell, it was the last day I HAD a life.

I'm trying SO HARD, y'all. I really am. I'm trying to do the work I'm supposed to do to "heal" or "recover" or "live with" this. I'm journaling, I'm meditating, I'm exercising (when I can get myself off my ass to do it), I'm doing chores around the house (when I can get myself off my ass to do them), I'm forcing myself to eat one meal a day, I'm reaching out to people so I don't stay completely isolated, I'm even trying - every few days - to revisit Codecademy so I can see if any of my computer geek skills are coming back (spoiler alert: they aren't).

But none of this "trying" has translated into healing, or even brief periods of relief. It's just activity that uses time; all I'm doing is passing time, and doing it in complete and total misery.

In Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz says, "I am UTTERLY alone." I can relate. All the zoom calls... they're just pity socializing, and I know it. Because I AM pitiful. I am, rightfully, an object of pity. The various communities of widows and widowers love to tell each other "you're not alone," but that's complete and total bullshit. I am alone. I'm alone physically pretty much all the time. I'm alone emotionally every minute, even when I'm sleeping (not only am I not dreaming about Doug; I'm not dreaming at all).

I know that people die of Broken Heart Syndrome, and statistically, I'm in the sweet spot (I'm a woman, over 50, with a history of seizures - febrile only, when I was a child - and with a history of anxiety). And yet, I'm still here. My heart is as broken as can be, but it won't stop beating. WHY won't it stop beating already? What is the possible reason why I have to keep suffering like this? It's not right. It's not fair. I don't want to do this anymore. I may not write it out every day, but make no mistake about it: I want to go and be with Doug. I want it every minute of every day. It is the ONLY thing I want.

I'm so tired, y'all. Tired of crying. Tired of the soul-deep loneliness. Tired of being a wife without a husband. Tired of TRYING to make myself believe that this will get better, when I know it won't. Tired of being here without my love. Tired of feeling bad because so many people are invested in me getting better and I'm letting them down because I'm not and I won't. Tired of not being able to see, and touch, and talk to Doug. Tired of not being hugged by the person who loved me most. Tired of sleeping alone. Tired of worrying about Prowler alone. Tired of being who I am now, which is to say tired of being no one and nothing but a meat bag of despair.

But I'm trapped in this life I don't want, without the man I do want. There's no escaping it. There's no making it better. There's no finding new meaning in life. There's no lesson. There's no silver fucking lining. There's no rising like a phoenix from the ashes. There's only pain.

Tomorrow, I'll be starting the Writing Your Grief course. Like everything else, I'll go through the motions. I'll do what I'm supposed to do. I'll TRY. And at the end of those 30 days, I'm going to be exactly where I am now: pitiful, lonely, and wishing I could just go already and be with Doug.

I'm just so tired, y'all.

Saturday, April 18, 2020

The worst part of waking up

After publishing yesterday's post, I did manage to do a few things:

  • I scooped the litter boxes
  • I did my first "homework" assignment for The Grief Recovery Handbook
  • I did laundry
  • I made a margherita pizza for dinner
There are quite a few things that were on my list that I didn't get to. But the day wasn't a total wash, and sometimes, that's gonna have to be enough.

I also had a zoom call/bourbon and a cigar with Doug's best friend Mike, and then I had a zoom chat with my sister, my youngest niece, my nephew, and my son. Fun? Sure. A nice way to distract myself from the fact that I'm alone. And yet... None of this would be happening if Doug were here. It feels like pity socializing, and I hate it. But I AM pitiful, so I suppose it's to be expected.

Went to sleep at about 1:00 AM, and woke up at 6:00 AM (still no dreams), which used to be my typical weekend wakeup time. And I used to LOVE waking up early on the weekends: quietly getting out of bed so I wouldn't wake Doug, coming out to the living room and having my coffee in the dark and the quiet, listening as the world started to wake up.


This morning, though, I don't love it. I don't love waking up without Doug next to me. I don't love the dark. I don't love the quiet. Waking up at the time I always used to makes it feel like a Kathleen-During-Doug morning. But it isn't, and it won't ever be again. I don't get to bring him coffee in bed and wake him with a kiss. I don't get to watch the news with him and laugh at all the insanity. I don't get to help him plant tomatoes, or zucchini, or cucumbers, or flowers (and without him, I won't plant any of those things, because Doug was the one with the green thumb). That butterfly garden we were going to start on this Spring? That's not happening either. NOTHING we wanted to do can happen now.


When Doug was still alive, he had a habit of snuggling up to me and kissing me on my left shoulder just before going to sleep (I sleep on my right side). My hair is kinda long, so I'd always pull it to the right side when I was settling in for the night so it would be out of his way. I realized this morning that I'm still doing that: I'm getting my hair out of the way for a kiss that will never come, from a man who will never hold me again.

I don't know how anyone survives this. 


Friday, April 17, 2020

Best-laid plans

You know the expression "man plans and God laughs"? Yeah, that's where I am: yesterday, I invested the time to plan all the things I needed to do today. I awoke at 6:30 AM (six hours of sleep, in our bed, with no dreams of Doug or of anyone or anything else), got up and walked the dog and fed the cats, sat down to have coffee, and... there I've remained. Because today is the kind of exhausted that sleep cannot help.

On reading yesterday's post, a friend told me that PBS had a series with Bill Moyer and Joseph Campbell called The Power of Myth, so I'd purchased it, and planned to watch the first episode today. Well, I STARTED watching it, and then dozed off. And then I woke up, and dozed on and off for the next several hours; not really asleep, but not really awake, either. I'm in an in-between, zombie-like state. Never did get around to breakfast, or scooping the litter boxes, or my walk, or lunch, or starting the laundry, or doing the first assignment for the Grief Recovery Handbook, or anything else. I've been a lump, on the couch. All day.

I underestimated how hard today would hit me. I overestimated my ability to power through when my energy isn't where it needs to be. I made the mistake of thinking that I could use the force of my will to get shit done. That's always been one of my superpowers (and the only one that's served me well): despite whatever else may be happening, I get shit done.

I forgot, last night when I was planning my day today, that I'm not me anymore, and I don't have that superpower anymore. I don't seem to have ANY of my former self's skills anymore.

This isn't a tiredness I can power through; this is a tiredness I have to... honor, for want of a better word. There's no ignoring it, no doing what I'd planned despite it, and no half-assing it and dialing back the scope. This kind of tired prevents me from doing ANYTHING other than accepting this is what today is going to be. MAYBE I'll get something done later, but it's not looking good.

And that's terrifying: what do I do when this happens once I'm back at work? I'm pretty sure this isn't a problem that's going to just go away. Right now, I can roll with it because I have no commitments, but what do I do when I'm back in what all of you see as real life and this profound physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion hits when I'm supposed to be a contributing member of society? As understanding as my management team may be, the rules of the corporate overlords are hard and fast: unscheduled PTO has its limits. Yet another reason for me to fear returning to work. As though I don't have enough to fear already.

This, apparently, is part of my new life: TRY to do what I'm "supposed" to do, TRY to put some structure into my days, TRY to find some way to live with the unbearable pain... only to be foiled at damn near every attempt.

And so, I'm right back in my own personal Pit of Despair. It appears I live here now.

Thursday, April 16, 2020

We now return you to your regularly scheduled grieving

After I posted early this afternoon, I spent some time on the Discord chat server for the widowers subreddit; those folks have been a phenomenal source of support over the past eight weeks. Then, I read the next two chapters of The Grief Recovery Handbook, and I'm committing to getting the first assignment done tomorrow. I've made my to-do list for tomorrow (including meals and a walk). I did some more work on my four-panel painting series. If I were pretentious enough to title my "art", I'd likely call it "Seasons of Our Love." Alas, I'm not pretentious (also: not an artist), so no title it is. When they're finished, I'll post pics. I completed the pre-class writing prompt for the Writing Your Grief course I'm beginning on Monday.

I also unpacked an item that was delivered two days ago. Why the delay in opening it, you ask? Well, folks, that's because I first left it on the porch for 24 hours, then Lysol'd the ever-loving SHIT out of it and left it to dry for another 24 hours. As for the item, remember last week when I had the revelation that the "journey" of grief would be better described as an epic quest akin to Joseph Campbell's monomyth? Well, I want to take a deep dive on that subject, but in order to do that, I probably need to get better acquainted with the monomyth beyond my very rudimentary familiarity with the concept. So I treated myself:

It took me three passes and about fifteen minutes to get through the two-page preface, written by Campbell in 1948. From those two pages alone, I can see that Campbell was a BEAUTIFUL writer: poetic but not flowery, detailed in his research on the subject (which will, no doubt, send me down numerous rabbit holes of additional reading to get a deeper understanding), and able to convey complex ideas in a relatable manner. I can also see that I have 337 pages of some VERY challenging reading ahead of me. That's gonna be interesting given that my intellect flag is not exactly flying high these days.

About my grief "projects"

There will be a lot of writing happening in the next month or so, between my independent work on the Grief Recovery Handbook and what I'll be creating in the Writing Your Grief course. I'll still post here daily, and I may very well share the work that I create in the Writing Your Grief course. But I won't be posting what I write for the Grief Recovery Handbook. I'll likely post about what I discover, learn, decide, etc. But that's work that I'll be doing in a physical notebook, and I'm not about writing exactly the same thing twice.

It's been a productive day. And I have a plan for tomorrow, so I feel good about that. That doesn't mean that I'm okay now. It doesn't mean I want to be here any more than I did earlier today. It just means that I managed to do something useful today. 

No exit

Imagine that you're on an epic road trip with your life's partner. Imagine that this person is your favorite human being on the planet: you're never bored when you're together, even the mundane is fun with him, and there's no one else you'd ever want to travel with. Neither one of you could do this trip alone, but together you've got it. One of you does the driving, and the other handles the navigation, and you alternate who's the driver and who's the navigator. Sometimes you get a little lost, but you're together, and you always find your way back to your designated path and the destinations you want to visit along the way.

Now, imagine that you're driving along like you do every day, and your partner is suddenly gone - just vanished - and you're on your own. You don't know where they went - not with any certainty - but you do know that they're never coming back. And now you're supposed to handle the driving AND following the map all by yourself. But the map has turned blank. And the road is gone; in its place is a wall that immediately popped up in front of you, and another on your right side, and another on your left side, and another behind you, and another above you. You're trapped.

You know that other cars are continuing on their own road trips, with happy couples traveling together. But you're stuck. Nobody can get in to where you are, and you can't get out. It's dark, and terrifying, and you're alone. You can talk to people, and those who've never been trapped will tell you that you can get out of this if you just give it time and try, but they can't actually tell you how to get out. Those who HAVE been trapped will tell you that yeah, you're always going to be trapped, but eventually you'll get used to it if you just give it time.

And all you want is to scream at EVERYONE to let them know that you will NEVER get used to being trapped, and you will NEVER stop being trapped, because the entire world has disappeared: there's just you, in this dark, terrifying box, alone. Scared. Tired.

That's a pretty fair assessment of my place in the world: I'm trapped in a dark, terrifying place; Doug has vanished and he's never coming back; I'm completely alone and stuck, while life goes on for everyone else.

And just writing all that out, I can't breathe. My life is over, but instead of eternal rest I get to spend my days trapped in this horrible, terrifying box from which there's no escape.

In our session today, Brooke asked what my purpose was before I met Doug. I was still raising my son then, so he was my purpose. Beyond that, my goals were largely around spending time with my friends and getting to play as many terrific roles as I could. And then Doug happened, and my purpose shifted: My purpose was to love Doug; to learn how to love Doug and to learn how to let him love me. Our goals together were to build our dream house and travel the world.

Notice that my career wasn't part of my goals: that's not because I didn't care - I did, very much - but I'm 54. I have no illusions that I'm ever going to be a CIO, and I don't want to be. I was happy with where I was in my career, and so long as I was being treated well and intellectually challenged, that was enough for me. My goal was to be happy.

But without Doug, there are no goals anymore. I hate this house - I wish I could walk away from it right this second, leaving everything behind, and never come back. But where would I go? I'm in this box, remember? Build our dream house? Why? So I can be just as alone and anguished there, but in a new setting? Should I travel? Why? What joy is there in traveling without the one person with whom I WANTED to see the world? My goal was to be happy with the love of my life. That's no longer on the table, so now what?

Brooke asked if I think that I don't deserve to be happy without him, and Grace had asked me much the same thing the other day. I don't think that's it; I don't think I'm experiencing survivor guilt. It's not so much that I feel like I shouldn't get to enjoy something just because Doug's not here to enjoy it; it's more that nothing IS enjoyable because Doug isn't here to share it with me. Without him, there is no joy, no meaning, no purpose, nothing to look forward to. Without Doug, there IS no life.

It's not that we had an unhealthy, codependent relationship; far from it. It's just that we were what married couples are supposed to be: we became one. Our friend Zach coined the couple name "Dougleen" for us after we'd been dating about five months, and we embraced that. We were two halves of one whole. Each of us was complete in our own way before we found each other, but we became a unit, and his death didn't just remove him; it removed enormous chunks of me too. Without him, I'm NOT a whole person anymore. Without him, I'm not even HALF a person now. Without him, I'm just a small, scared shell of what used to be a person. And trapped; let's not forget that I'm trapped.

I'm come up to a very bad stretch of days: today marks eight weeks since Doug died. Tomorrow it will be two months since his surgery and exactly six months since our wedding day; Monday will be two months since Doug died. A week from today, I will have been a widow exactly half as long as I was Doug's wife. And I'm scared. And I'm SO LONELY. I miss him, every second. Nothing is meaningful without him.

Day 56, and I still can't come up with one reason to hope, one reason to think that I'll ever find hope, or one reason that makes it worthwhile to continue to live in SO MUCH PAIN. I'm in this box, trapped, with nothing but my sadness and my memories of a love cut short. What I have isn't a life. What I have is a life sentence.

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

But not for me

Just before I published last night's post, I got some news, but didn't want to edit the post to include it, because I was too emotional.

Doug's granddaughter and her boyfriend closed on their first house yesterday. And then, as they were about to walk into their new home together for the first time, her boyfriend proposed, and she said yes.

This is, of course, WONDERFUL news. Doug absolutely adored Olivia (as he did all his grandchildren), and he was crazy about Dan. We went to plenty of weddings in our four years together, and always enjoyed them: getting dressed up, slow dancing... but we won't get to do that now.

We didn't get to attend a single wedding after we were married. I can just picture us, glancing at each other lovingly, remembering our own vows as we watch the happy couple exchange their own. And that's another memory I'll never get to make with him.

Olivia told me that she dreamed about Doug the night before the house closing and engagement. And she said that she felt him with her, because when they walked into their new home, it smelled like him. I'm so glad she was able to get that comfort. But I'm not going to lie, it ripped me apart all over again, because I still haven't had a dream about him or a sign of him, and it's killing me a little more every day.

I slept about five hours last night. No dreams. No signs. I keep trying, and trying, and doing what the experts tell me to do, but it doesn't make a difference. No matter what I do, I still feel the same darkness and emptiness and despair. The despair is overwhelming. It's unbearable. And yet still I breathe.

If I were terminally ill and lived in any one of ten states, I could get a prescription to end my life quickly, easily, painlessly, and legally. Why is that not an option for me? I'm not clinically depressed; this isn't a biochemical issue that can be fixed or even mitigated with medication and therapy. It's not seeking a permanent solution to a temporary problem: Doug's death is not temporary. I am simply done. I don't want to be here anymore. There's not a single second in the past 55 days when I HAVE wanted to be here anymore.

I don't know why I have to do this. I don't understand why it's not okay for me to just say, "I've had enough," and move on already. There's nothing else I need to do. There's nothing else I WANT to do. I'm so very tired of hearing "just take it one day at a time." FOR WHAT? FOR HOW LONG? How many days do I have to suffer like this before it's okay to give up? 60 days? Six months? A year? FIVE years? WHEN WILL I HAVE FUCKING SUFFERED ENOUGH? 

I know that life goes on, for everyone who isn't me. And I'm okay with that; it's as it should be. But life doesn't "go on" for me. Life just leaves me stuck in this place I don't want to be, without the one person I want and need. And I don't want to be stuck anymore.

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Unlearning poor grief habits

Grief counseling days are HARD.

Talked to Grace about my two days of distraction; she prefers to think of them as "breaks," but a rose by any other name and all that. The key, she said, is to try and find some balance between the active grief work and those breaks. Balance is not my strong suit; I tend to be an all-or-nothing kind of gal.

She also said she sees lots of signs that I'm going to be "fine," whatever that means: despite my desire not to be here, I'm taking the right steps, even if I can't get my sleeping and eating in line. But continuing to write, to try and maintain connections to other (still living) people, to try and accomplish SOMETHING each day... Grace thinks all those are positive.

Her one concern is my obsessing about the future: it's too early to worry about the future, she said. I need to just worry about what I can do TODAY to make today bearable. And that's what I have to do every day. But to my mind, that just means that what I have ahead of me is an endless string of days where I make each day "bearable," but... so what? Who wants a "bearable" life? Do YOU? Is that good enough for you? Because "bearable" is NOT good enough for me; not after having a life I actually loved for four years.

I've slept in our bed twice in the past week; the first night was, I think, Saturday? Last night was the second. I was hoping that maybe sleeping in our bed would trigger dreams about Doug, but no such luck (why would I have good luck, right?). Adding insult to injury, both times I slept in our bed I woke up with my back killing me: guess I'm used to sleeping with one of Doug's legs thrown over my legs, and missing that weight is screwing with my back. Yet another adjustment to make. Oh, goody.

I worked through Chapter Three of The Grief Recovery Handbook, which had a lovely writing prompt for the reader to identify all the various bits of misinformation they've internalized around grief and loss. How have we internalized this misinformation? It's because it's what we're taught:

  • Don't feel bad (this is what's behind nearly every horrible cliche response to grief). But why? Why shouldn't I feel bad? MY HUSBAND IS DEAD. I should think folks would be more concerned if I DIDN'T feel bad. Examples of those cliche responses below, and note that the grieving person hears these with the addendum, "so don't feel bad":
    • He's in a better place
    • Everything happens for a reason
    • He wouldn't want you to be sad
    • At least you had him at all - some people NEVER find love
  • Replace the loss (the kneejerk reaction of parents everywhere when a pet dies, right?). Examples below, and I don't think I need to tell you why these are HORRIBLE things to say to someone who's grieving - and all of them are absolutely true; they've been said to me or to others:
    • You're young; you'll find another husband (people hear this when they've lost a spouse to death or divorce, and it's never acceptable)
    • You can have other children (don't even get me started on this)
    • There are plenty of dogs available for adoption, so just get another one (while it's true that it can be comforting to love a new pet, that doesn't take away the pain of missing the one who died)
  • Grieve alone: every time you see a grieving spouse refusing to cry in front of his or her children, it's very possible it's because they've internalized this message; every time a grieving person stops reaching out, it's because we've internalized the message that grief is something we have to do on our own because nobody wants to hear it.
  • Just give it time or Time heals everything. Umm, how about no? TIME does nothing. Time passes. If I "just" give it time and don't do anything else, I'm "just" gonna keep feeling the way I feel forever. Time, all by itself, does exactly SHIT to process/heal/integrate/manage grief.
  • Be strong. Oh, this one burns me up, and it's the other reason grieving spouses avoid crying in front of the kids - they think they have to be strong for them. First of all, what in the actual fuck does that even mean? "Be strong and stop crying"? "Be strong and get back to 'real' life"? "Be strong and grieve alone like you're supposed to"? "Be strong and move on"? Listen very closely, folks: FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
    As far as I'm concerned, leaning into my grief (instead of hiding it in a package more palatable for others) IS being strong. Letting non-grieving people see what grief REALLY looks like is being strong. Openly admitting that my life is empty, lonely, and devoid of meaning without Doug IS being strong.
  • Keep busy. Why? To make the time pass? To distract ourselves so we don't feel bad? Distractions can be helpful to a point - a palate cleanser, if you will - but they can't be the whole diet, or eventually the grieving will crash and burn in spectacular fashion.
NONE of these statements is remotely helpful or comforting. Is my pain lessened just because some other people never have the love that Doug and I shared? Is my pain minimized because Doug wouldn't want me to be sad? Is it minimized because MAYBE someday I'll find love again? Is it minimized by keeping it to myself? Have the past 54 days done anything to mitigate the pain of not having Doug next to me every night? Do I hurt less if I plaster on a happy face and pretend to have... well, this one doesn't apply to me, because I'm not plastering on a happy face for anyone. Is my grief easier to bear if I stay so busy that I can ignore it? The answer to all these questions is a resounding no; none of it helps, so the next time you happen upon someone who's grieving, DON'T SAY ANY OF THOSE THINGS.


I planned on taking a 30-minute walk today once it warmed up, but that never happened. At 1:45, when it became clear that there's rain headed this way, I gave up on waiting for it to warm up and went on out. FYI, 48 degrees and breezy is too forking cold. Or too breezy. It's too SOMETHING, for sure. I only made it twenty minutes because it was just too chilly. If it's like this again tomorrow, I guess I'll be settling for the elliptical instead of walking outside. It's not that I particularly WANT to be remotely active, exactly - but activity may give me an appetite enough to start eating real food again, and might help me sleep more than four or five hours.

On returning home, I decided against creating a schedule for myself: that's too much pressure, especially given that I have ~20 hours to fill each day, at least until I go back to work. Instead, I'm just going to schedule my wakeup time (we're aiming for 7:00 AM), and the first hour of my day will be drinking my coffee and planning my day. I'm not going to bother trying to schedule a bedtime, because I'm having enough trouble sleeping - I don't need to pressure myself, because that will only backfire.

I took a shower, and then... and then I fell apart. I don't know why, on this day, the simple act of taking a shower caused me to come undone, but here we are. Maybe it's because I'm still not used to walking out into the living room after showering and finding it empty. Maybe it's for no reason at all other than I miss my husband. And I do. I miss him so much. He had this dimple in his left cheek, and there was this particular smile that I never saw Doug give to anyone but me... it was his very own "I love you" look, and my heart skipped a beat every time he smiled that smile. Even after four years together, even with him pushing 67 years old, he grew more handsome (and yes, sexy) to me every day. And before you think "Ewwww! Unattractive old people getting it on? GROSS!", let me remind you that, if you're lucky, you too will be old someday and you'll be grateful that you still want to get it on; sex is fun, people, and that doesn't change just because parts start getting saggy. Sorry not sorry.

And, with that falling apart, I was right back to sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking and crying, and feeling as though there's no point to any of this. I'll keep doing the work - because what ELSE am I going to do with all this time, right? But the longing for Doug, the silence in this empty damn house, the empty spot next to me in our bed, the NEED to talk to him and see his face and feel his touch... Those aren't "better" and they aren't easier, and they aren't gone. They feel just like they did 54 days ago. It's just so hard to be here without him. Nothing feels right, and nothing makes sense, and nothing eases the pain.

I miss Doug. I want Doug. I need Doug. But I can't ever have him again.

And I don't know how to do this without him.

Monday, April 13, 2020

To feel or not to feel

Today was odd. After having Andrew here yesterday and last night, it was too damn quiet. Also, having that company yesterday and last night kept me distracted. We've already established that - at least, for me - grief delayed is grief that comes back with a vengeance. Some days, though, the delay is too hard to resist.

Today was such a day, so I made it another distracted day; I just couldn't stomach the idea of having another day like last Wednesday. And that's a problem: taking a Scarlett O'Hara, "I'll think about that tomorrow" approach to grief is SEDUCTIVE, yo. I mean, every day that I can mostly distract myself is a day I don't spend crying, and... look, human nature is to run toward pleasure and away from pain. There's no pleasure in distraction, but it limits the pain.

How many days can I distract myself, though? If I do it long enough, I could find myself stuck and unable to get back to a place where I CAN grieve, and I've read enough to know that's not healthy either. It's a conundrum, for sure: distracting myself day after day could leave me unable to fully grieve, which would give me absolutely no shot at having a happy life. But I'm equally certain that, no matter how much I grieve, I have absolutely no shot at having a happy life anyway. So, do I put in the work knowing it's going to be excruciatingly painful for a period of time and then I'll end up miserable? Or do I keep distracting myself to the point where I'm still miserable, but without all the peaks of suffering along the way?

Since I was tired, I took a nap for a bit this morning. I took care of the litter boxes, and read the second chapter of The Grief Recovery Handbook (my one nod to grief work today), and watched some more episodes of The Walking Dead. I also emptied the dishwasher (which I loaded and ran last night) and washed the cats' bowls and the saucepan and bowl I used for tonight's dinner of butternut squash soup. Three nights in a row, my sink has been empty when I went to bed - so there's definitely something to distraction.

Nevertheless, there were a number of moments when I had breakthrough sadness. Invariably, those moments happen when I accidentally stumble on something that makes me think of Doug: seeing Sunday's recording of Call the Midwife on the DVR (he never watched it with me, and I kept hoping I'd get him to do so; of course, now that can't happen); seeing that What We Do in the Shadows just started its new season (we watched that together, and loved it, and I don't know if I'll be able to enjoy it without him sitting next to me laughing his ass off). Such little things, and yet the elicit so much sadness.

Yeah, it's tempting to try and spend every day distracting myself as much as possible. Alas, I can't do that tomorrow: Tuesday is grief counseling day, and Grace isn't going to let me distract myself through our session. So tomorrow will be a grief work day: have my session with Grace, go for a walk, read the next two chapters of The Grief Recovery Handbook, and maybe start working on trying to put myself on some kind of schedule. That may be overly ambitious: after two days avoiding my grief, once I break the seal with the session with Grace that may be all she wrote for the day: I may end up curled up on the couch crying for the duration. And that's okay.

Maybe that's all I can do right now: choose on any given day - or at least, for stretches of time on any given day - whether to let myself feel or not. What's funny in all this is that I spent YEARS not letting myself feel, and I got to be REALLY good at it. Doug ruined that for me, in the best possible way. He made me WANT to feel again. And now, because of losing him and how painful that is, the desire to run back to that old habit is strong - SO strong. I know Doug wouldn't want that, but Doug isn't here, and feeling nothing is a lot less painful than feeling what's real for me.

Tomorrow I'll choose to feel, because distraction isn't really an option on grief counseling days. And the day after that I'll have to choose again. Neither choice seems to lead me to a place where I'm happy, though: in one direction, I end up missing him forever but permanently emotionally stunted; in the other, I end up missing him forever and feeling every bit of that misery every day.

I don't like this. I don't like being lost, and I don't like being empty (it worked for me for years, but I don't LIKE it), and I don't like crying all the time, and I don't like life without Doug. And somehow, without a roadmap or any idea how to get un-lost, I'm supposed to find myself, fill myself up, and find reasons not to cry. But these are not skills I possess, and they aren't skills I know how to cultivate in myself.

But I can't solve that problem. Not tonight, anyway. So I'll take my cue from Doug's favorite band - The Beatles - and, at least for now, I'll let it be.

At long last, human interaction

For the first time in I truly cannot remember how long, I spent time in the same space as another human being yesterday: my son came over for the afternoon and evening - and ended up spending the night because the weather was still sketchy and I have a storm shelter. We've both been quarantined for weeks, and so we knew we were both safe; and we both needed the company.

I made a super simple dinner (because that's all I'm capable of), and we watched a movie along with several more episodes of The Walking Dead (not to mention the Weather Channel). He headed off to sleep at 11:00-ish; I was up until 3:00, and back up at 6:30 when he woke me up to tell me he was leaving. Still no dreams, because why should today be different, right?

I'm not going to say that I didn't enjoy myself; my son is fantastic company. Of COURSE I enjoyed myself. I was glad to have him here, and I hope we can see each other more often, provided we both keep ourselves free of COVID-19 so that we can.

Had a Zoom call with the family yesterday, and that was fun, too.

But the thing is, neither the visit nor the Zoom call fundamentally changed anything: my life is every bit as empty as it's been for the past 53 days.

After my post two days ago, one of my friends commented on Facebook that it "sounds like progress," and I had to jump right in and explain that there's no such thing. "Progress" implies that there's a path from here to there (whatever "there" means), and that I'm moving along that path. But as I've said before, there is no path; grief is much more a Jeremy Bearimy kind of thing. And I can't have people thinking that just because I'm able to have a day doing something other than curling up in a ball crying, that means I'm "better." This is the garden path a lot of non-grieving people travel: if the grieving person has a good day, that means they're getting better, which is what everyone wants because it's too hard to believe that maybe it really doesn't get better.

But of course I'm not better. How COULD I be better? Doug is dead. Doug is ALWAYS going to be dead. However much I enjoy spending time with my son and the rest of my family, it doesn't change the fact that the person I loved most and who loved me most is gone. No one else loves me like Doug did, and that loss is not one from which I can "recover." This isn't a life; it's not even going through the motions of having a life. It's a few moments here and there that aren't absolutely excruciating; but at the end of the day, I still don't have the person who gave me new life, the person who taught me how to be loved and how to love in a healthy partnership, the person who gave me reasons to smile every day just because he was here. At the end of the day, I still go to sleep without my love to hold me and knowing that I'll wake up in the morning still without him.

My longing for my husband hasn't waned. My desire to be with him hasn't waned. My steadfast belief that this life holds nothing for me without him hasn't waned.

I miss my husband so much. Everything feels empty without him, especially me.

Saturday, April 11, 2020

Do not leave us bereft of his good

No post yesterday, because there wasn't anything new to say. I was finally hit with some of the numbness that typically happens immediately after a death; I had a few bad hours, but it was mostly a day of nothingness. Which is appropriate, given how much I feel like I am nothing since Doug died. And, frankly, numbness was a relief compared to the anguish in which I've been marinating nonstop since February 20.

I was watching The Walking Dead (because it's my current distraction of choice, and I'm going to catch up to the current season if it's the last thing I do). I don't know WHY I stopped watching after the season just before Alexandria, because DAYUM, it's held up well and gotten even more batshit crazy.

But I digress: last night, I was watching Season Eight. In Episode 13, a new member of the community is talking to Rick Grimes and quotes part of the Muslim prayer for the dead, which ends with, "do not leave us bereft of his good and do not send us astray after them." Now, I'm not religious - I can't even say that I definitively do or don't believe that God/dess exists. But I DO have a spiritual nature, and have found that most every religion has wisdom to share. And that phrase, "do not leave us bereft of his good and do not send us astray after them"? It stuck with me. And when I woke up this morning, it was still stuck. Even now, it remains in my head, popping up every hour or two of its own volition.

The thing is, I AM bereft of Doug's good; sure, I can remember it, but I won't ever get to experience it again; no one will. And that's so, so wrong. He deserves to be here. He SHOULD be here. I need him here. I AM bereft. I'm also going astray after him. I know that I shouldn't, and I know that he wouldn't want me to, and I know that I WANT to go astray after him. It's ALL I want - to be with my husband. All I KNOW how to want right now is to be with him. If I can't... then what will become of me? That possibly-decades-long unknown stretch of time is... bleak and terrifying without my love.

But then... "do not leave us bereft of his good and do not send us astray after them." It repeats in my head, over and over. And I don't know what to do with that.

And so, for today, I decided not to go astray after him. I decided instead to try and tackle some things around the house. Is it immaculate? Ummm, no. Is it presentable enough? Yeah. Tomorrow morning I'll sweep and mop the floors, and I still have much to do in the coming days and weeks, but if I WERE to die in my sleep tonight, whoever showed up and found my body wouldn't be horrified by the state of my house, so at least there's that. My son is coming over tomorrow; not to celebrate Easter (because, again, not religious), but because we're expecting severe weather AGAIN and I've got a storm shelter. I'll make something simple for dinner, because he'll need to eat, and I CANNOT wait to hug him - it's been... three? four? weeks without any in-person interactions or hugs, and that's the one thing I'm most looking forward to: hugging my son.

For tonight, I'm going to do something Doug and I kept meaning to do but never got around to doing: I'm going to watch Zero Hour (the dramatic film parodied by Airplane!), and then watch Airplane!. Rumor has it that Airplane! is nearly a shot-for-shot recreation of Zero Hour, with plenty of dialogue in common as well. Don't know if it will be fun, exactly, but it's something I can do to honor plans we'd made before Doug died. Maybe, if I'm really lucky, he'll be here watching it with me. And if I'm lucky beyond my wildest dreams, maybe tonight will be the night he finally visits me in my dreams.

Thursday, April 9, 2020

Grief and mythology

Seven weeks. 49 days. That's how long Doug has been gone. How is that possible, when he was just snuggled up to me yesterday? How can it be when the last time I felt his touch was forever ago? How is it that time keeps moving and yet doesn't move at all?

I feel as though I'm in a film, and I'm the character who's standing still while all around me everyone else is moving so fast they're a blur. I'm trapped. Stuck. Paralyzed - with loneliness, sadness, yearning, and fear.

I slept five hours last night. No dreams. Haven't eaten anything yet today; ended up eating just a little hummus with na'an last night after talking to my sister on Zoom.

I had my weekly session with Brooke this morning, and caught her up on how this week has been, especially yesterday. I told her afraid I am that I'm in a spiral that I can't get out of. I told her how afraid I am of everything. Especially, I'm afraid because I don't know who I am anymore.

This is a problem that's unique or at least has maximum impact, to people who lose a life partner: Doug was an integral part of my every day, so losing him impacts every single piece of my existence; there's no room, no subject matter, no hobby, no food that doesn't make me think of him. He was part of who I am, and he's gone. And everything we'd planned for our life is gone. So where does that leave me?

I can't go back to being Kathleen-Before-Doug, because she was completely changed by having him in her life. I can't go back to being Kathleen-With-Doug, because he's not here. So who am I? Who am I supposed to be? How do I figure out who I'm going to be?

These are questions that no one can answer. And it scares me. I'm too old to reinvent myself. What if Kathleen NextGen decides that she hates everything that she's loved up to now? Then what? I'm 54, dammit; how am I supposed to start over now with nothing? And yet, that's really what I have to do even if I don't end up hating everything I used to love: my old life has been obliterated. Whatever qualities I had, whatever flaws I had, whatever beauty I had inside me... they're not mine anymore. I'm in this place that exists both at the intersection of space and time and yet nowhere. I'm IN the dot of the "i," where nothing never happens.

Brooke said it's not helpful to worry about the future, but she knows full well that's near impossible for me. I don't do the here-and-now; I'm ALWAYS thinking seven or eight moves ahead. I may be a shitty chess player, but I'm very skilled at looking at the future possibilities in my life ahead and choosing which path is the best one. It's an essential part of my makeup, and that's one thing that hasn't burned away. But how do I choose a path when there ARE no paths? I've said this before; 11 days ago, to be exact:
I'm in this terrifying, pitch-black forest with no trail and no signposts - not even any stars I could use to navigate. I don't see any way out. All I see is the obliterated road behind me, where our love lived. But I can't go back there. Ahead is just a tangle of vines reaching out to entrap me, and trees blocking any path, and rocks tripping me, and I don't know how to get through it. I don't even know where I'm supposed to go. And no one can tell me where I'm supposed to go, so I'm paralyzed. All I can do is sit here in the terrifying darkness and cry out for you: the one person who could help me find my way to myself, and the one person who won't.
So how does someone who's always future-oriented get out of that space? Out of that forest of sadness and fear? I don't know. Neither did she. But she did lay out a few things she wants me to do, as something of an experiment:

  • Take a walk outside, for just ten minutes.
  • Make a list of daily tasks I HOPE to (not must) accomplish.
  • Start working through The Grief Recovery Handbook; she said she used it after she had a loss, and found it very helpful even though she did it without a partner.
I went for the walk, but I did 20 minutes instead of 10. I listened to a podcast as I walked, which managed to keep me distracted (and therefore kept me from crying) for those 20 minutes. And yes, it's a beautiful day. But I can't say that the breeze or the sun felt good, because nothing does. I experience sensations that should be pleasurable (taking a shower, feeling the breeze and the sun, hearing the birds, smelling the flowers), and yet they aren't pleasurable. They're just there. Nothing moves me.

I started the list of daily tasks, but have a feeling it'll be a work in progress for a few days - my brain still isn't firing on all cylinders. The idea behind the list is not to force me to do all the things on all the days; the idea is to start thinking about practical things to be done and trying to do SOME of them each day until I can do them all.

I haven't started going through the Grief Recovery Handbook in earnest just yet, but I'll read the first chapter in depth tonight.

I'm lucky in that I have wonderful friends and family who really do want to support me. But grief doesn't lend itself to companionship; not really. Certainly not for me: I struggle with emotional intimacy; that's one of the reasons I was so poorly-skilled at choosing partners before Doug. Oh, I wanted to be LOVED, and I wanted to love (kinda); but I didn't want to let anyone get close enough to REALLY know me, and I sure as hell wouldn't open my heart enough to REALLY love anyone (we're talking romantically here - of course I love my close friends and my family, but that's not the same degree of intimacy and we all know that). But Doug, with his kind and gentle nature, and with his calm strength and steadiness... he made me open up my heart to him, and what a gift that was: to genuinely love a man completely and wholeheartedly. I willingly gave him the power to destroy me, and he didn't. Until he did.

No, grief is a "journey"* I have to take alone. I can bring a companion or two along for some of it, but this is all me, and it HAS to be all me. But I miss that intimacy. I long for it. I YEARN for it; no friendship and no family member can replace, or mimic, or even come close to the deep intimacy I had with Doug. And the prospect of having to live without it is profoundly sad and scary. Because we all want to be SEEN. We all want to be KNOWN. No one sees me or knows me, really. Not like Doug did.

*Can we talk, for just a moment, about the use of the word "journey" to describe the grieving/healing process? Because it pisses me off. I don't know why, exactly; perhaps it's that "journey" evokes a sense of eager anticipation. As you can probably imagine, I'm not feeling that. What's before me isn't so much a journey. Really, it's more like Joseph Campbell's monomyth: an epic quest taken on by a "hero" despite not wanting the quest at all. If this is a myth in which I'M supposed to be the hero, I'm in big trouble, folks.

And right about now, I'm REALLY sorry I never got into Dungeons and Dragons or other RPGs; they may have better prepared me for what lies ahead.

This is, I think, a subject I'm going to want to delve into in greater depth over the coming days and weeks. Perhaps it's a perspective that will help me make progress? I don't know. I do know that the monomyth is, after all, a construct of mythology. But my life is not a myth, so how I can translate the epic quest into my real life is a mystery - especially since epic quests usually have a tangible goal; I have no idea what my goal is. All I know is that I've been charged with an epic quest I have no desire to take.

Sigh... as I was writing, I glanced at the clock and it was 5:38 PM. On a Thursday. And BOOM! Flashback, right to TriStar Summit SICU Bed 12, holding Doug's hand and watching his heartbeat get slower, and slower, and slower.

I've worked hard today, and I don't have the capacity to relive Doug's death again right now without putting me right back where I was yesterday. So I put on an episode of The Walking Dead and made myself pay attention to it until I got past the 6:10 mark. And I feel really shitty about that: Doug had to live it; all I had to do is watch. He sure didn't have the opportunity to opt out of living it, and opting out of reliving it feels... like I'm cheating, somehow. But I couldn't do it, folks. Not today.

Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Burying the lede

I'm becoming a connoisseur of grief literature. This is not so much because I'm fascinated by the subject so much as it is desperation (more on that in a minute). Last night, I purchased The Grief Recovery Handbook, by John W. James and Russell Friedman, because someone in the widows/widowers subreddit recommended it. I've looked through it, and it appears to be a series of writing exercises intended to be done with a partner (ideally, someone else who's also struggling with grief) and designed to "complete" unfinished relationships with people we've lost.

Finding a partner to do this with would be my first challenge, because it would require a level of intimacy that I'm not generally good at with many people.

But that's not why I brought up the book. I brought up the book because the fifth chapter is entitled "Academy Award Recovery." Its focus is on how we're taught that grief should be managed by distracting ourselves or thinking about what the dead person would want for us, or by being strong, or by medicating it. (Fun fact: most everyone I speak to recommends medication; almost none of the grief literature I've read agrees with that recommendation. According to what I've read, treating grief as though it were clinical depression does not mitigate the grief; rather, it can extend it and potentially complicate it.)

It's all bullshit, and it's why people new to grief feel as though we're losing our minds: grief isn't a problem to be fixed, but the non-grieving treat it as though it is. And so, in order to minimize the discomfort that our grief causes the non-grieving (and let's not even talk about how ridiculous THAT is, because if there's ever a time when we shouldn't have to worry about making other people uncomfortable, it's now), we become Academy Award grievers: we put on a happy face; we say that we're fine; we may try to throw ourselves into self-improvement or helping others new to grief. All those actions help everyone else believe that we're doing better, that we're functional again, and then the grief is "fixed." And it's all a lie; there is no fixing grief, and hiding or minimizing our feelings doesn't help us make progress in the grieving process.

I'm not interested in Academy Award grieving. I'm not writing here to put a positive spin or a happy face on grief or its recovery/resolution/management/survival/[insert term of your choice here]. I'm writing because I want and need to make a record of this time in my life - for myself and for anyone else who may find herself or himself in the position I'm in. I'm writing because I'm stuck alone in my house 24/7 and will go absolutely batshit crazy if I don't communicate, even if it's communicating to the void.

Remember how that first paragraph included a mention of desperation? I called the Suicide Prevention Hotline today.

Not because I was literally suicidal (at least, not when I MADE the call), but because I was desperate for some concrete suggestions of what I can DO, because "just take it one day at a time" isn't cutting it. I didn't sleep again last night. I didn't eat anything yesterday or so far today. I've been crying all day. I've done 48 days of feeling my feelings and journaling and therapy and grief counseling and talking to friends and talking to family and I'm getting worse. I'm afraid that, if I don't find a way to pivot somehow, inertia is going to lead to me being stuck here permanently (and that's the best-case scenario, actually).

In the interests of full disclosure, it is true that I'm not overtly suicidal, but that's not the whole story. The whole story is that I'm not suicidal solely because I know there's no way to kill myself that's guaranteed to be both fool-proof and painless. If I had such an option, I probably would have taken it by now. (Hey, I told you: no Academy Award grieving here;  you're getting the real story.)

"But... Kathleen," I hear you cry, "if there's no fool-proof and painless method, and you won't do anything to yourself unless it's fool-proof and painless, then why did you call the Suicide Prevention Hotline today?" I'm so glad you asked. What scared me today is, what happens if I keep getting worse and reach the point where "fool-proof and painless" become nice-to-haves rather than have-to-haves? Again, let's remember that I'm alone in my house with my thoughts 24/7, feeling more hopeless with every passing day. If I were to suddenly decide that either "fool-proof" or "painless" is no longer an absolute requirement, there is literally nothing to stop me from doing exactly what I've promised everyone I won't do.

"But... Kathleen," I hear you cry, "what's with the 'not literally suicidal when you MADE the call' thing?" I'm so glad you asked. I gave her the condensed version of the story (new husband died unexpectedly 48 days ago, in grief counseling and therapy, getting worse, not sleeping or eating, yadda, yadda, yadda), and she went through the usual list: "take it one day at a time;" "there's no timeline for grief;" "you won't always feel this way."

And not gonna lie: I got snippy. I said, "That's what EVERYONE says, but HOW? What can I DO? Because what I'm doing is clearly not working." And she asked what it is that I wanted to get from the call. So I said, "I want some suggestions for concrete actions I can take to shift my trajectory, which is currently going in the wrong direction."

Her response? "I can't tell you that, because everyone grieves differently." People, I am not making this shit up.

REALLY? Someone calls you in so much pain that they're desperate for something - ANYTHING to hang onto to give them just a TINY bit of hope, and THAT'S it? You've got NOTHING?!?

At that moment, I realized I was well and truly screwed: even the suicide hotline couldn't help me. And at that moment, and for a brief while afterward, I was truly suicidal. So I got onto Facebook, and went into my small girls' secret group, and asked for someone to do a zoom call with me. And two of my fabulous friends got online with me and listened (and watched) me cry for a good half-hour. Do I feel better? Yes and no, but what's important is that they got me through the crisis, and I love them for dropping everything to be there for me when I needed it.

And then, I emailed Grace the Grief Counselor to ask if that book I'd purchased was any good. She suggested I instead go through Megan Devine's "Writing Your Grief" course, which is a 30-day, guided grief "workshop" with a social support system included. Not gonna lie: I'm troubled by the commoditization of grief support - I mean, I have the resources to afford it, but what about people who don't? What are THEY supposed to do? That seems wrong somehow.

But if Grace thinks it will be beneficial, I suppose there's no harm in trying, right? It doesn't start until April 20 (two months to the day after Doug died), so I'll be flailing about on my own until then. But I have a session with Brooke tomorrow, and I'll ask her for some suggestions to get me moving on the right path until then.

Have I hit rock bottom? Only time will tell, but I can't imagine it gets any lower than I was this afternoon.

Tuesday, April 7, 2020

If it's Tuesday, it's grief counseling day

Had a 90-minute session with Grace the Grief Counselor today.

That poor woman. She's trying so hard to help me, but I fear she's fighting a losing battle. What we have here is a perfect storm: Doug - the love of my life, the only man ever to love me, and the only man I've ever loved - died only four months after our dream wedding. The COVID-19 pandemic forces me to be alone all the time. That same pandemic is wearing on the friends and family who would otherwise be available to try and support me, leaving me isolated not just physically but completely. On top of that, I'm reminded every time I turn on the news that this society is over. We're led by avaricious morons who worship money while proclaiming themselves to be the real Americans (and don't even get me started on how they've bastardized faith in this country). Healthcare professionals are dying because they don't have sufficient PPE, and are getting fired for "complaining." So, no Doug, no ANYONE, society collapsing... it's all just too much.

I become more certain every day that I'm not going to make it. I don't know how long I'm going to be able to hang out in this not-alive-but-not-yet-dead state, but no way is this sustainable. Not when it gets more painful and more lonely and more frightening every day. The decreasingly frequent zoom calls with friends and family don't cut it. Nothing does.

I miss Doug, but that phrase can't even begin to communicate how I feel. I used to miss him when I went away for work for a few days, and that was difficult. This? This is impossible. We didn't have a complicated relationship or a troubled marriage; we had the fairy tale. We were totally and completely in love and besotted with each other. We wanted to be together almost all the time - and we both forced ourselves to take some time alone or with friends (and without each other) just because we knew it wasn't healthy to be glued together 24/7. But my point is, we were each other's favorite. We were each other's home. We were each other's safe space. Being without Doug is a constant physical pain, like what I imagine being stabbed in the solar plexus must feel like. Imagine feeling as though you've just been stabbed, all the time. Now imagine feeling that way all the time for 48 days.

Nothing that I used to find worthwhile is worthwhile without him. And no amount of love from other people can fill the gap that's left from what I've lost: I lost the person who loved me most of all; the person I loved most of all. I lost the sounding board for all of life's little choices and moments. I lost the only true and constant intimacy I've ever really known. I lost my partner. I lost my best friend. I lost my other and better half.

I don't see any light at the end of the tunnel. All I see is darkness.

Grace and I were talking about how much more it hurts every day that I don't dream about Doug or get a sign from him, and she suggested that I should write the letter I think he would have written for me. Even the mere SUGGESTION of such a thing sent me into uncontrollable wailing for a good ten minutes.

I realize that people are worried about me. I realize I sound like a broken record. I realize I'm spiraling. I also realize that there's nothing to be done about it.

So I wait to die*. And I hurt. And that's my life now.

*No, I'm not going to kill myself.


Monday, April 6, 2020

Grief is...

Not being able to sleep in your own bed because you were never supposed to sleep alone there again and even LOOKING at it makes you sick.

Not being able to cook because it's a worthless effort without him to eat with you.

Not showering for five days because it's just too much effort.

Having absolutely no idea how to survive every day, because every day feels unsurvivable.

Bursting into tears because your back itches and you have to scratch it yourself.

Being unable to throw away his razor and his toothbrush, even though you know he's never going to use them again.

Using his bath soap and wearing his clothes just so you can smell him.

Seeing your happily coupled friends sharing stupid Facebook "have your partner answer these questions" games and feeling like you've been punched in the gut, because you can't do that anymore, because you don't HAVE a partner anymore.

Considering the possibility of reaching out to a medium out of pure desperation to talk to him again, even though you know most of them are full of shit.

Desperately asking anyone - even strangers - for some advice that helps, but nothing does, because the only thing that would help.

Realizing that you spent several years building a life of your own so that you would be a happy and fulfilled empty-nester instead of turning into a stereotypical crazy old cat lady when your son moved out - and managing to do just that, only to end up being exactly the crazy old cat lady you never wanted to be anyway.

Buying every book about grief you can find and trying to plow through them in a desperate attempt to find some glimmer of hope, but finding none.

Knowing that your life is over, and you're forced to spend the rest of your days in misery, with nothing but silence, and loneliness, and skin hunger, and sleepless nights, and no appetite, and more tears than you ever thought you could cry, and terror to keep you company.

A fire that burns away everything you've worked so hard to become, leaving nothing but destruction in its place.