and a... new year

One year ago today, I was in the midst of prepping for a truly epic New Year's Eve dinner for Doug and me. I loved cooking elaborate meals for him, because he so enjoyed eating them. We planned not to go out, because at that point we hadn't told very many people about his upcoming surgery, and I was afraid that I'd burst into tears if anyone so much as asked me how I was, because I was worried about it. I had NO idea what was coming; if I had, I would've told him to cancel the damn surgery until after his birthday like he wanted.

We had a beautiful evening together; our first and last New Year's Eve as a married couple. I'm glad we chose to spend it with only each other. But it's a heart wrenching pain knowing that I'll never be able to do that with him again.

As difficult as Christmas 2020 was, New Year's Eve promises to be far, far worse. Hell, it's not even noon and it's already far worse. And no, it's not worse solely because I don't have my love (or indeed, anyone) to kiss at midnight. It's far more complicated than that.

This year has been an absolute cluster for all of us, whether you lost someone or not. Selfishly, I find that the focus on deaths due to Covid has rather pushed the grieving (for people who died from something other than Covid) to the side. Covid deaths have subsumed all other deaths in the collective consciousness; Covid grief has overtaken our own individual, personal grief. I understand that, but it does feel as though I was robbed of a lot more than Doug; I was also robbed of the grief experience and support that would have been the norm in any other year. I have no basis for comparison, so I can't say that it would have been easier on me if Doug had died in a year other than 2020; all I can say is that this year has been hell. And I feel pretty comfortable saying that all of us who lost someone this year feel that way to one degree or another, no matter the cause of death.

But that's not why tonight and tomorrow will be worse than Christmas.

Most people are excited to put this shit show of a year to bed once and for all; fresh, clean slate and all that. And they're talking about what they learned, or how they became a better, stronger person due to the hardships of 2020. But for me - and for the millions of people in my shoes - there IS no putting the shit show of a year to bed. Sure, we too get that clean slate, but it doesn't feel like a clean slate. Instead, it feels like the rest of the world is moving ahead and I'm not ready to do that. 2021 is a year in which my husband won't be here. I can't manufacture a list of things that create some kind of silver lining for this year, because there isn't one: this year is the year my life was destroyed. As of midnight tonight, Doug will have died last year. 

I cannot explain the existential horror of that sentence, because I can't even parse it into words to explain it to myself. But it feels like the worst and most final bookend ever, or the slamming of a door that will never open again: I'm not a married woman anymore. Doug isn't here, hasn't been here in 315 days, won't ever be here again.

The thought of going into a new year without him is so heavy that I start crying and hyperventilating every time I think of it. I don't want a new year; not without Doug. I finally deployed that workflow I've been struggling with for months, and then I cried approximately two buckets of tears, because Doug would be so proud of me. It's hard to take pleasure or any pride in accomplishing anything without having my biggest cheerleader here to be proud of me. And please don't tell me to be my own biggest cheerleader: for one thing, that is not in my nature; for another, it's not the same as having that one person who always has my back. I got used to having that. I miss it more than I can express.

So, if you're excited about getting out of this godawful year and moving on to a fresh start, I'm happy for you; I really, truly am. But please - if you don't mind, spare a thought or two for those of us who can't find a way to enjoy this. Please remember that some of us don't have anything to look forward to. Some of us aren't ready to leave 2020 behind. Because, however horrible 2020 has been, it's a year in which our now-deceased loved ones lived; and we aren't quite ready to let it go just yet.

Please stay safe tonight, so that you don't put any of your loved ones in the position to feel the way that I and millions of other people feel right now.

Death, discoveries, and decisions, Part IV

This post is Part IV (and the last) in a series. If you haven't already, you might want to go back and read Part I, Part II, and Part III, and then come back.

In my previous post, I said that - although I'm doing better in general - I've had (and will continue to have) setbacks and bad days. This past week, unsurprisingly, has been a minefield full of them.

December 20 was bad: it was exactly ten months since Doug died, a dear friend of ours died the night before, and those two things together kept me from sleeping more than a few hours. I was in an ugly crying fest for much of the day. I wanted to - and very nearly did - just stay on the couch all day. I ate breakfast, but then... I was in my head, and in my heart, and just couldn't escape the pain. By noon, I realized I hadn't even finished my first 20oz of water. So I went and got more, but my eyes were burning and I was exhausted and I spaced out watching something on TV (can't even remember what). Before I realized it, it was 3:30 PM (way too late for a nap even though all I wanted to do was sleep). And I had that insulated 20oz bottle, still full of water. And I hadn't eaten lunch. Nor had I divvied up and packaged for freezing the 8 cups of Moroccan rice, 7 cups of chickpeas, and half-gallon of chicken stock I'd made the day before. And the breakfast dishes were still in the sink.

But here's the thing: that routine I put in place? It kinda saved the day. I've been drinking a gallon of water every day for several weeks, and I'm not going to miss a day now. So I got back on track and started drinking my damn water. And when I went into the kitchen for more, I saw the dishes in the sink and thought, "ok, it'll only take a minute, and you'll be mad at yourself if you don't do it," so I unloaded the dishwasher, then loaded the breakfast dishes.

And since I was already in the kitchen, I went ahead and got all the food from my Big Cook the day before into the freezer. Never did eat dinner, but I'ma give myself a pass, given what day it was and that I did everything else I needed to do.

So, yeah: the 20th was a Very Bad Day. So was the 22nd; oh, how I wanted to scrap my planned dinner (Moroccan tofu, root vegetables and brussels sprouts) and order a bleu cheeseburger with a spiked milkshake from Burger Republic. But I've allocated "treat" days for a reason: that food is delicious, and would certainly give me a little much-needed hedonistic pleasure - but it also makes me feel like shit physically. So I made my planned dinner, stuck to the rest of my routine, and got through the day.

The routine is everything. I'm still lonely AF and not particularly happy to still be among the living, but it keeps me physically stronger. And it keeps me functioning as well as I can cognitively - within the limits I still have, of course. Yes, I'm aware that routine can become a crutch; eventually I'll have to be flexible again. But that time isn't now, while I'm still hanging on by a thread and stuck by myself all the time (thanks, Covid!). And it's not that sticking to the routine does anything to make the pain easier; but what it does do is keep me physically stronger, which makes me better able to cope with the Very Bad Days.

I did nothing for Christmas, which was exactly what I was willing and able to do. I was not feeling anything to celebrate, and so I just pretended that it was a day off with an excuse to eat some really decadent and not particularly healthy food. Optimal? No. Survival instinct? Yes indeedy. The dark woods continue to close in on plenty of days, and I no doubt that they will do so to one degree or another for as long as I live.

But I did plan for Christmas: Eggs Benedict (with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon) and smashed potatoes for breakfast, Crab cakes with roasted asparagus (gotta use all that hollandaise, right?) for dinner. My plan was to eat decadent food, drink enough booze to maintain a nice buzz all day without getting hammered, and watch Rare Exports, followed by The Hebrew Hammer, followed by Jingle Jangle and then whatever else struck my fancy.

I cooked everything Thursday, and my son did a porch pickup of his share so we could eat together on Christmas via Zoom.

You know what they say about the best-laid plans, right?

As I was watching the news Christmas morning, a bomb detonated in downtown Nashville. A few hours later, my internet went out, and with it, my plans to Zoom with The Boy, and my plans to watch those movies, because no internet means no streaming. Interestingly, my cable TV held out until early Saturday afternoon (and thank the gods, because I don't know what I would've done all Christmas day otherwise - but I know it probably wouldn't have been good for me).

I posted a "I know plenty of people have it worse, but COME ON!" Facebook post, because venting is important. And then devised a backup plan: I had all of the current season of Fargo on the DVR, so I watched a good chunk of that. And I talked to my son several times on the phone; it's not Zoom, but beggars, choosers, yadda, yadda, yadda. And then, two friends dropped off their mobile hotspot for me to use, so I'd be able to work come Monday (because I doubted that my internet access will be back by then, though AT&T surprised me and got it done).

I got through the day. It sure wasn't great, but it wasn't as terrible as I'd feared, and I think that's because I've been taking good care of my body and that's helping my emotional state. I expect New Year's Eve will be a very different story, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. And I'll explain why I expect it to be worse than Christmas in a separate post, because this series is already longer than I think anyone would find reasonable. 

I also have no doubt that dwelling in that very dark place for as long as I did - and even in that impenetrably dark place - was necessary, and is probably the reason why I'm even contemplating a future, however bleak that future looks to me right now. The single worst thing a grieving person can do is to try to make an end run around their grief by staying busy or drunk or socializing or hooking up with strangers or meds or anything of the many unhealthy coping mechanisms one might use to escape one's demons. 

The only way to live with grief is to face it head on, and I've done that - probably to extremes, to the casual observer - and will continue to do it. I faced down that terrifying darkness all by myself for two full months, and I'm really proud of myself for that: it was the most painful, scary, empty, lonely time I've ever experienced, and the single hardest thing I've ever done, but I did it. Sadly, I know it isn't over, and it won't ever be over, not really. There are going to be more Very Bad Days, and I know I won't always be ready for them. But I know I can get through them, and I probably will get through them, even though just a few weeks ago I was absolutely sure I wouldn't, couldn't, and really didn't want to. Let's just hope that my future trips to the abyss are short-lived, because I don't know if I can do two long months of that ever again.

I'm better. I'm not good, but I'm better. While I still don't particularly want to live, I am alive. And while I still don't feel as though it's possible to ever be truly happy again, I'm willing to try; and that's something.

Five days after Doug died, I wrote, "I feel like I'm made of plate glass with millions of tiny, spiderlike cracks; any sudden movement is likely to shatter me into so many pieces that I'll never be able to be put back together." I still feel that way, a lot of the time. But, more and more, I'm more like tempered glass: not unbreakable by any stretch of the imagination, and I can still shatter into a million pieces if I'm "hit" hard enough; but I'm definitely not as fragile as I was. It's not the same as being happy; it's still not a life in any meaningful way. But, again - it's something.

I expect I'll start writing more frequently again as I begin to dip my toe back into the world of the living, and I hope you'll come along for the ride.

Death, discoveries, and decisions, Part III

This is the third in a series; if you need to catch up, please read Part I and Part II and then come back. I'll wait. 😘

Let's talk about the future. Again, no one is more surprised than I that I can even write that sentence, but here we are. Like it or not, Jeff Goldblum's character in Jurassic Park was right: life... finds a way. 

Even when we don't want it to. And I really, really didn't. Still don't, if I'm being totally honest, but it seems that life is going to do its thing and find a way anyhow, with or without my approval. So I suppose I'd best find a way to cope with it.

It wasn't until the week before last that the future even started to exist for me in any way. But I got to thinking about this house, and how I wish I could remodel it (since selling it and building our dream house is now off the table, as there is no more "we" and therefore no more "our" dream house). Remodeling is not possible (because: Covid), as there's no way in hell I'm having strangers in my house until this thing is over; I've seen how careless the locals are here, so I trust no one.

But then I got to thinking about how I always wanted to live in an unconventional house: one whose first life was something completely different (yes, I see the analogy: a woman who's now a completely different person than who she was before, wanting to live in a building whose function is completely different than the one it was before): maybe a textile mill, or a fire station, or a church. Doug really wanted to build a house, so that's what we were going to do. And no, I didn't consider that a sacrifice; in a marriage, the needs of the marriage supersede the desires of the individuals in it, and he gave me so much that I wasn't about to quibble with something that wasn't a complete showstopper for me. Wherever Doug was, that was home, no matter what it looked like. 

But Doug's not here, and while it feels wrong, the truth is that the only person whose needs I have to consider now is me. So, for kicks, I got online and did a little sleuthing, and I found a house in Wisconsin that used to be a church, and it was so incredibly gorgeous (and at a price I could afford) that I seriously considered buying the damn thing without ever even seeing it in person. It would've been perfect for the gothic/gargoyle aesthetic that I have always wanted to have in my house but never got around to indulging. 

And that's the moment when I was able to imagine a future again that was anything but total anguish; still not happy, for all the reasons I've been writing about for more than ten months, but not total anguish. 

Alas, relocating during a pandemic is probably not a good idea. And I'm in no condition to pack up a house at the moment, so... maybe another time. But DAMN, that house was magnificent.

I'm still not able to read books, and that's the next thing I want to tackle: I'm still buying books at the same rate I always did, and I have amassed a backlog that's more than a little daunting. I desperately miss reading.

Until the pandemic is behind us, I'm likely to continue doing what I'm doing (i.e., staying the fuck at home alone), but hopefully I'll be able to start some limited zoom/socially-distanced-and-outdoors socializing soon-ish. And as soon as it's safe, I'm going to be the social butterfly of all social butterflies: theatre, karaoke, dinners out, spending time with people as much as I can. And, I'ma be THE HUGGIEST motherfucker you've ever seen: close friend, acquaintance, even friendly stranger, IDGAF - if you're willing, I'm hugging. And as I said in a Facebook post on the subject, I don't mean a wimpy, barely touching, polite kinda hug. I mean like a facehugger, but your whole body. 

Also, as soon as it's safe (which, by my calculations, will likely be sometime next summer - roughly a year and a half after Doug died - but if it's sooner, that's fine too), I'm going to start dating.

You may have thoughts about that, and if what I've seen from my fellow widows is any indication, some of those thoughts may be considerably less than charitable. I actually saw a post in a widows' group last week in which several people intimated (and one outright said) that if a widow/er has a relationship after the death of their spouse, then they maybe loved their spouse, but they clearly didn't cherish them. 🙄

If there are widows who feel that way, I have no doubt that there are non-bereaved who do as well. So I'm going to state my position on the subject in as blunt and direct terms as I can: You are free, obviously, to think whatever you like. But anyone who so much as hints within my hearing that I didn't cherish Doug (because I want another chance at a happy relationship) needs to understand that they are purchasing a one-way ticket to I-will-NEVER-speak-to-you-again-land no matter who you are, with no exchanges, no refunds, and no take-backs. I mean, have you been paying attention the last ten months? Doug's death destroyed me. I loved that man with everything I have; I still do, and I always will. 

But he's dead, and he's not coming back no matter how much I want him to, and I don't want to live on my own with no partner. I've done it for most of my adult life, and I enjoyed it way back in the day, but I don't want to do it again. I've had no choice but to do it for 312 days now, and I fucking HATE it. I know how good it is to live with a partner I really love and who really loves me, and I want that again. I loved being married (the one time I got it right, anyway); I'm good at it, and it's good for me.

And if that all seems too soon to you - or if you think I should wait until I don't miss Doug anymore, I have a question: assuming you've grieved the loss of anyone close to you, when did you stop missing them? I mean, my mother died in 1990, and I still miss her. If I wait until I don't miss Doug anymore to start dating, I'll be alone forever. Moreover, I'm 55. By the time I'm able to safely start dating again, I'll likely be 56. Should I wait until I'm in my 60s? 70s? Until I'm on my deathbed?!?

No, there is no replacing Doug, and I wouldn't even try; it wouldn't be possible OR fair. Yes, I will always miss him - even if I find another great love and marry again. And whomever I date is going to have to respect that and understand that missing and loving Doug does NOT mean that I cannot love another man. If anything, it's my love for Doug - and Doug's love for me - that makes me a good partner, because I know what a healthy relationship looks like, and I know how to co-create one, and it has nothing to do with magic: it has to do with basic compatibility, good sexual chemistry, and a willingness to make the effort, every single day. And please don't think my desire to remarry means that I'd rather be with a shitty partner than alone: I've been there and done that, too (twice!). I'm grieving, and I'm lonely, but I'm not a fool. If Doug did just one thing to prepare me for a life with someone else, it's that he raised my standards really fucking high: The next man to win my heart may be nothing like Doug, but he's going to have to be as spectacular as Doug was, or he won't even have a shot.

If, after reading all that, you still have thoughts on the subject, here's a handy-dandy flowchart I made to help you decide whether you should share those thoughts with me (fellow widow/ers, feel free to download it and use it for yourselves):

Now, if you're still with me, please know that when the time comes that I want to start dating, I am absolutely going to ask my friends to help me meet someone. See, I'm a data geek, and I crunched the numbers, and... it's not good. 

• The greater Nashville area (that's Davidson, Wilson, Sumner, Rutherford, and Williamson counties) has a total population of 1,600,781. 
• 26.4% of the population is in the age range that's appropriate (47-65), which takes us to 422,606. 
• 49.3% of the population is male, which takes us to 208,345. 
• Since intelligence is important to me, let's say that 40% would meet my benchmark, which takes us to 83,388. 
• I would prefer not to date a man who's never been married by this age, so that leaves us with .14% who've been divorced/widowed and are still single, which takes us down to 11,667. (Exceptions could be made for men who were in long-term cohabiting relationships that ended due to death or breakup, but I couldn't find stats on that, so I'm going with the numbers that are available.)
• 36% of the population in Tennessee is progressive or leans left (and if you think I'd EVER date a Trumpian - and by now anyone who's still Republican is indeed a Trumpian - I've got a bridge in the desert for sale, and I'll give you a great deal), so that takes us to 4,200. 
• Of those, 90% are straight, which takes us to 3,780. 
• Of that group, let's say that 10% would want to date me. Personally, I think that number is high AF - historically, I've not seemed to be particularly appealing to a very high volume of men, and that dates back to even when I was young and beautiful. But we'll go with 10%. That takes us to 378. 
• Of that group, let's say I'd be willing to date 15%, which takes us to 57.

57. 😳

In all of the greater Nashville area, there are roughly 57 men I could date and potentially spend the rest of my life with. How in the actual fuck does one find one out of 57 men in a population of nearly 1.7 million? Online dating is one avenue, but for real: I'm hoping my friends can help (that's indirectly how I met Doug, after all). And yes, it's totally cool to laugh at the fact that I actually looked at the numbers; I did it because I'm all about data-driven decision-making, but I also know that's not something normal people do. For the record, I never claimed to be normal. 😘

As for the rest of healing/recovery/moving forward... look, I've been in a really dark place for over 10 months. And I was in an unspeakably dark place for more than two months. I've started to climb out of it (even though I didn't think I could and certainly didn't want to do so), but I have no doubt that more days in that dark place are in my future. Grief isn't linear, and there will days when I'm right back in that hole again. I've already had a few, and that's the subject of tomorrow's post (and, to the sure relief of your very tired eyes, that'll be the last in this series).

Death, discoveries, and decisions, Part II

When we left our story yesterday, it was Thanksgiving. Over the next few days, I thought maybe it was time to talk to a therapist again - but it needed to be someone other than Brooke. Don't get me wrong: she's wonderful, and I have no doubt I'll see her again at some point, but I wanted to talk to someone who did not know Doug, and did not know me in The Before Time.

Early the following week, I did just that. I can't say I particularly loved the guy, so probably won't see him again - there was nothing wrong with him per se, I just didn't feel like we resonated the way I'd like. Nevertheless, he was the catalyst for everything that followed.

He listened to my whole story, and after asking a few clarifying questions, he asked, "How much water are you drinking?" I told him that I had no idea of real numbers, but that it was very little. So he said that he wanted me to forget about everything else in terms of healing. All he wanted me to do was drink 80 oz of water every day. 

So I did that. I put aside all other thoughts about healing/grieving/moving forward, and each day I tried to drink 80 oz of water. And it was hard AF. The first few days, I really had to work to drink that much; I was pretty much choking it down. Now? I'm up to a gallon a day with no problem. My body is still not quite used to this much hydration, so I'm the queen of the speedy bio break. But... within a few days of making the effort to drink enough water, the persistent headaches I was having started to dissipate. My skin isn't as dry anymore. I even started sleeping better (no, I'm still not able to sleep in our bed); not all night, and not actually well - but better. And I started feeling better - physically. I was still an emotional wreck, but I was an emotional wreck who was sufficiently hydrated and considerably better rested than I had been in months.

I got to thinking, what if I did a little more? So I started limiting myself to two cups of coffee in the morning, and absolutely no caffeine after noon. If I want a hot drink now, I make some herbal tea. And that helped my sleeping a little more. Again, I got to thinking, what if I did a little more?

Eating was still a big problem at that point; I really wasn't hungry, but when I did decide to eat, it was either takeout/delivery (not fast food, but restaurant meals aren't known for being particularly well balanced), or it was junk food. So I decided I had to find a way to enjoy cooking again - or, if not enjoy it, at least find it tolerable.

The problem was that I missed cooking for Doug; I still do, and I always will. But that missing cooking for Doug made it damn near impossible for me to cook anything that I ever cooked while he was alive. How to foster enjoyment of cooking when I can't cook any of the things I used to love to cook? Turns out that a little creative thinking found an easy answer: cook different stuff.

Basically, what I've done is turned food into a challenge: first, plan meals each week following Michael Pollan's mantra: eat food, not too much, mostly plants. This works because Doug was NEVER going to eat primarily plant-based. So cooking vegan-ish doesn't bring up that lump in my throat. The second part of the challenge: make every single meal as delicious and appetizing (meaning: attractive plating) as possible. The third, and most game-ifying part of the challenge: use what I have on hand - don't throw away any perfectly good food.

Plan in place, I cleared out my kitchen: went through every single thing in the fridge, and if it was expired or I knew I was never gonna eat it, it got tossed. Then I did the same thing for the freezer. And the pantry. Oy, the pantry. SO MUCH CRAP that had expired over a year ago.

With a full inventory of what I had on hand, I planned a week's worth of meals, and ordered groceries for what I needed that I didn't have already. To help keep track of the calendar, this was on December 5. I started forcing myself to eat breakfast (overnight oats on workdays and tofu/veggie scramble on the weekends), lunch (curried chickpea salad with veggies on Dave's Killer Bread or a green salad or just some hummus and veggies in a spinach wrap), and dinner, every single day. Since I have a sweet tooth, dessert each night was either a cup of dark chocolate almond milk or two squares of dark chocolate (85% dark chocolate is my jam, yo; I like my chocolate dark and bitter - like my personality).

And do you know what happened? After the first few days (when I really did have to force myself to eat), I actually started getting hungry. Mind you, some days each meal is literally just a few bites. But I'm eating, and I'm eating food that's good for me and delicious. I'm having fish once or twice a week, chicken every week or two, and I haven't had any beef or pork since I started this experiment (I'm not opposed to either, it's just that they don't rank high in my priority food list until I start wanting a burger or a filet mignon or some barbecue).

All this means that I'm having to learn to make new things. I'm keeping track of the meals I love so they go into permanent rotation: fish tacos, veggie soup, and the Moroccan brown rice are keepers; the veggie-stuffed cabbage, not so much. I'm becoming much more adept at figuring out what else I can make from what's on hand. That's how the stuffed cabbage came to be: I was trying to figure out what else I could do with the cabbage I'd bought to have with the fish tacos. I'm also becoming a lot more adventurous in experimenting with flavors than I was before. This week's planned culinary highlights include African Peanut Stew tonight, and Sweet Potato Bisque toward the end of the week.

As I got into the habit of eating enough food (and good, unprocessed food at that), I also got into the habit of loading, running, and emptying the dishwasher every day. Yeah, I know that can be wasteful if I don't use a lot of dishes on any given day. But I also know that if I don't do that, within a few days I'll have a dishwasher full of clean dishes and a sink full of dirty dishes. Since I'm eating primarily plant-based, I also started taking a multivitamin and B12 supplement every day. 

And after a week of that, I noticed that my brain was working better. I was able to troubleshoot code without having to get help. I was retaining what my data governance software guru was teaching me on coding these blasted workflows. I wasn't at 100%, and I'm still not, but I'm performing much better than I was. Still can't read books, though. 😢

So I'm working better, and I'm drinking enough and eating delicious, healthy meals, and I started thinking about some of the other stuff: recreation in general; music and TV specifically.

Music is a big problem: Doug was a HUGE Beatles fan, so any Beatles song sends me straight to the fetal position, as do most love songs or songs about lost love. But Spotify has an enormous catalog of music, and I've discovered a new appreciation for hip-hop and African music. It is impossible to listen to African music and not feel an improvement in your mood. So when I'm cooking, I play African music, and I dance (badly) while I chop, and steam, and sauté.

TV is another problem: there are a few shows that Doug and I watched together that I can still watch, but quite a few that, for reasons I can't explain, are just not possible. So I've deleted a shit ton of stuff on the DVR that I was never going to watch; I cancelled a shit ton of series recordings; I've found new shows to watch, when I'm not listening to music or staying on top of the Covid situation (which: please send help, because Tennessee is NOT okay).

That's what's happened since Thanksgiving. How am I? Physically, I feel much better. I feel good, even. I'm able to enjoy cooking (and eating) again. I'm sleeping better. I'm functioning better at work. I'm even enjoying work again (to a small degree, but it's a step in the right direction): it's not giving me the fulfillment it once did, but I'm able to enjoy the technical/intellectual challenge. I have a schedule and routine that are working for me. I'm even ready to start dipping my toes back into acting again, assuming I can find an opportunity to do so (virtually, of course - not doing live theatre until it's safe to do live theatre again).

That's all the good stuff. Now, for the bad: I'm still an emotional wreck. Covid isolation is weighing on me. Yes, I know it's weighing on everyone, but it is not the same for those of us who lost spouses in the past year, so please try to resist the temptation to "we're all suffering" this situation. I didn't go from single to covid isolation; I didn't go into covid isolation with my immediate family; I went from happily married to the love of my life, to widowed and covid isolation in less than one month's time. It's not the same as it is for the many people whose lives will return to normal when this is all over. I don't ever get to return to normal. I have to craft a new normal that promises to be but a shell of the normal I had. I miss Doug. I miss inside jokes, snuggles, kisses, screaming at referees, his smile, his voice, his smell, his hands, that dimple in his cheek. I miss being loved. I miss being known inside and out. I miss loving him. I miss him loving me.

And all this "progress" I've made is taking me further away from him, from us. And I hate it, even though I know it's the only way to survive. 

A marriage is three discrete entities: the two spouses, and the marriage; on the surface, I lost two-thirds of my life, but in reality, I lost all three. Because I was right: I died with him. The woman typing this post is not the woman who married Doug Allen 437 days ago; this woman was born 311 days ago, when that woman died along with the only man who ever loved her. I now eat different foods; listen to different music; watch different programming. 

You could say those are superficial data points, and you wouldn't be wrong. But I am - of necessity - a different person, and it's unnerving to think that I could turn into someone that Doug maybe would not have loved (and what are the ramifications of that possibility in the afterlife, if it exists)? You could also say it doesn't matter if I become someone Doug would not have loved, because he's not here - and you wouldn't be wrong there, either. But it feels viscerally... uncomfortable. Wrong. I'll work through it, I imagine, but it's a thing that weighs heavily on my mind.

No, I don't beg for death every night anymore. Yes, I still do on some nights, and more often that not. And even on the nights I don't beg for death, I'm still fine with it it if happens. Yes, I still pray that he'll be sitting in the living room when I walk down the hall. Yes, I still cry. Not all day every day, but at least some on most days. No, I don't know how long that will last.

While I'm in a routine that's working for me, my house is still a disaster area. My sink is emptied every night, but it needs to be scrubbed down, and I haven't gotten around to that yet. The whole house is cluttered - piles of clean clothes on the bed I don't use, coloring books and art supplies and notebooks and other 'weapons' of mass distraction are everywhere. The dust/fur bunnies roam freely in the wilderness that is my unused dining room (okay, they're in every room). Doug's things are all pretty much exactly where he left them, right down to his toothbrush. I can't yet bring myself to even move them, let alone start going through them to get rid of them. But, baby steps, right?

I'm back to brushing my teeth every day (yes, for a while, that was not a guarantee - I literally forgot to do it on some days), but daily showers are still a pipe dream (in my defense, I don't go anywhere and I don't see anyone, so a big part of me figures why bother? every other day is good enough). I'd started biting my nails again (a habit I gave up at 21, but extreme times and all that), but I've gotten that back under control.

As I wrote yesterday, I'm starting to engage more on Facebook, and I've started texting people again, a bit. I even had a lengthy conversation with a friend on Christmas Eve (and only cried once). I'm not yet ready for socializing (zoom or otherwise), but I imagine that'll come if I keep working this "find a way to function" experiment.

I'm moving, but I'm not moving forward yet. Like a hamster on a wheel, I keep running but I go nowhere, because the circumstances of grief during Covid make it impossible to remodel the house or shop for decor (or frames to hang up pictures) or really plan for the future. I still don't (can't) sleep in our bed. I'm lonelier than I can express or that you can understand (unless you've been here), and it's not a loneliness that time with friends or family could help: I'm lonely for the kind of constant, integral-part-of-your-daily-life intimacy that doesn't exist outside of a full-time, living-in-the-same-house love. Like I said above: I miss being known inside and out. There is no substitute for that kind of intimacy, and therefore no way to fill that particular gaping hole inside me.

I'm still angry/sad/scared much of the time; I don't want this life. I don't want to live alone. I don't want to be celibate. I want to dance in the kitchen with a man who looks at me as though he's been looking for me his whole life. I had that; but for far too short a time. Yes, I know that no amount of time would have been enough, but let's not pretend that losing a spouse after only four months is the same as losing a spouse after 30 years, okay? I'm not saying it's worse, but it's not the same. And I don't know how (or if) I'll ever get beyond that anger/despair/fear due to what was stolen from Doug and me.

There is no pain so exquisite as wanting only one thing and not being able to have it; but even worse is having it and then losing it nearly as fast as you got it. And there is absolutely nothing that can ease that pain, even a little.

And if you're wondering how I can say things are better when I'm still in the emotional shitter, it's because things are better. I'm physically better. I'm cooking again (in fact, I haven't had takeout since December 4). I'm sleeping better. I'm less emotionally volatile. I'm able to enjoy bantering with friends on social media. There's no denying that I'm better. Yeah, I still hate this life, because I'm alone in it. But I'm better.

Now, you may be thinking - as I have several times over the past few weeks - "You stupid bitch; you could've done all this ten months ago like everyone told you to, and you'd be so much further along!" And it's a reasonable thought, but it's wrong. I really couldn't have done this ten months ago. Or two months ago, even. I couldn't have done it, and it wouldn't have made a difference if I had, back then. I couldn't get to where I am now without dealing with and, in a way, bonding with that deep, dark well of misery. I'm sure AF not going to say that those most horrible months were good for me, but they were necessary.

That's where I am, and how I got here. Tomorrow, looking toward the future.

Death, discoveries, and decisions, Part I

It's been about a month since my last post, and more than two months since I went into near-total seclusion from everyone: I talk to my son every few days, and very rarely, my sister, step-daughter, and bestie. Otherwise, it's all me, all the time, alone with my thoughts (when I'm not working). And it's been more than ten months since the love of my life died.

And honestly? I'm doing... better. Not great, and maybe not even good. But better. And no one is more surprised by that than I am. 

This is going to be a multi-part kinda deal, because I have a lot to say. I want to talk a bit about where I was during and after those last two posts, and then I want to talk about where I am now and how I got here. And finally, I want to talk about the future and what I think (hope) that will look like. SURPRISE! 'Time' didn't have a damn thing to do with it; as I've said before, time doesn't do anything but pass. Now, anybody who follows me on Facebook or Twitter has probably already noticed that I'm being a bit more sociable - virtually, at least. So I thought it might be helpful (for future me, for other widow/ers who may happen on this, and for my extended friends and family) to get an explanation as to what the fuck?

Please note, other widow/ers who might be reading: I am under exactly zero obligation to explain to anyone how I got from A to B, and neither are you, so don't think I'm saying anyone who isn't me should do this. I'm doing it because I promised to be totally honest and transparent here, and I'm gonna honor that. And, because - maybe - reading about my experience may help you, if you're where I was (and likely will be again).

Where was I? Oh, yeah... this is going to be in several parts. This first one is going to be a deep dive into where I was, and if talk about death/suicide/grief so heavy it may as well be dark matter is going to be triggering for you, you might want to sit this one out and pick up when I post Part II.

When last I posted, things were bad. Things were as bad as they could possibly have been. My trip to Georgia was a colossal failure that left me absolutely certain that I was 100% correct back on Day One when I said that I died right along with Doug (as it turns out, I really was 100% correct, and I'll explain that... at some point in this series of posts). Nothing gave me any joy or peace; nothing gave me comfort; I couldn't do ANY of the things I used to do to relieve stress or feel better when I was down. Not only did I have no life or semblance thereof, I couldn't see any way that I ever would again.

I wasn't just gazing into the abyss; I was enveloped by it. Hell, I became it. I was a black hole so dark and so dense with misery that no light could get in or out. I was toxic, to myself and anyone who got too close. So I cut off all communication (for a full month, I don't think I talked to anyone but my son, other than meetings at work). No therapy, no grief counseling, no grief group. And God/dess love my friends and family, they left me to do it, with no complaints (no complaints that they shared with me, anyway). Every now and then, I'd get a text from someone just checking in, but no one pressured me to engage with the living, and I'll be forever grateful for that because I truly didn't have it in me. I was dead inside, and dealing with the living was just too painful. I'm especially grateful for their understanding because I was incapable of being any kind of friend or family member. I literally did not have it in me; my pain was so all-encompassing that there was not room for anyone else's pain (or their happiness, for that matter). My world shrunk down around me until it was just me, my son, my pets, and my work - that last one out of necessity alone. That grace that I was given by so many people? That means the world to me. Without it, I have no doubt I'd still be stuck where I was then. 

I stopped trying to find ways to distract myself from my pain, or "get past" it. I dove into it. I marinated in my loss. I became one with my grief, and my pain, and my fear, and my aloneness. I screamed (a lot). I slammed doors (a whole lot). At one point, I considered rehoming Kellogg, Marmalade, and Houdini because I was afraid that being around me in my misery was dangerous to their emotional health, but ultimately decided against it because having them around helps keep me grounded. Yeah, that's selfish. So be it.

I did one other thing during those first few weeks after I got back from Georgia: I planned my death. 

I say this because I think it's important to understand that it is possible to want to die - to make plans to die, even - and stay alive anyway. Obviously, everyone is different, but for me, it was the right thing. I took the time to research, identified a method that would achieve my goals of being as painless and foolproof as possible (and no, I'm not going to share what it is, because I'm not about to enable somebody else who's in a bad place), figured out what supplies I'd need, figured out where I'd obtain those supplies, decided where I'd check out and and how I'd guarantee that it wouldn't be a loved one who would find me, decided how I'd make sure that all paperwork was in order, that the house was in order, that all accounts were either closed or noted for my son to do it... 

Yes, I know that sounds scary, but FOR ME - and ONLY for me - doing all that work (and it's important to know that I never actually purchased any of those supplies) and all that planning actually eased my burden just a tiny bit. Because I gave myself the option - because I had it sitting in my back pocket and knew that I could avail myself of it with just a few weeks' lead time if I decided that enough was enough - I didn't need to take it. I took all those months of obsessing about wanting to die, and effectively said to myself, "OK; you've got it all planned, and if you decide that you're really done, you can take yourself out. So you can stop thinking about that now and devote your energy and limited brain power to something else." Giving myself permission to check out on my own terms, paradoxically, made it easier not to do it.

What I've described above encompasses the six week period between Doug's and my first not-an-anniversary and roughly Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving, my son and I shared a takeout dinner from Nashville's famous Loveless Cafe (I split everything in half and he did a porch pickup the night before Thanksgiving). I supplemented their meal (which: very good!) with my own dressing, an apple pie, and some bourbon whipped cream. Andrew and I got on a zoom call and ate dinner together. We planned to watch Christmas Vacation as per tradition, but streaming a movie in a zoom call is... subpar.

It's important that you understand that, on Thanksgiving, I still wanted to die. I mean, I still do, to the extent that I wouldn't be upset if it happened. But I'm not begging for death every night anymore. Some nights, yes. But not every night. 

And that takes us to Part II. Tomorrow.