The two-year mark

 

Two years ago, I was at the hospital, trying to wrap my head around the news that my husband was gone. There was no warning, no way of possibly knowing that he would just collapse, and that the doctors would never be able to revive him. 

How does a person who is so full of life, one who had been such a huge part of my life for more than 20 years, just suddenly cease to exist? It makes no sense. 

I was chatting with a friend today, when she mentioned I've basically been through ten years' worth of changes in the past two. That sounds accurate. I feel like I have aged at least ten years in the last two or three. 

I am mostly okay. During the first year or so after his death, my most common response to "How are you?" was to say that I was "Okay-ish." Not completely okay, but -ish. I'm not saying that there aren't people out there who want honest, genuine responses when they ask someone how they are doing, but I tend to feel like a lot of people say it because it's part of the script that we have been socialized to follow. A lot of people could use "How are you?" and "Hi" interchangeably, and they are thrown off by honest, open responses. On that same note, even if I did feel like the person asking me really wanted to know, I'm not exactly willing to unleash all my woes and vulnerabilities in the pet food aisle at the Dollar General. So, the most honest, genuine response I could usually give was "Okay-ish." 

I am proud to say that I have changed my standard response to "Okay" most of the time. That feels like an upgrade to me. I tend to save most of my pity parties for my therapist, anyway.

A lot has happened in these past two years. Food once tasted like sawdust, but I can appreciate it again. I finished my master's degree. When I received the actual degree in the mail, I felt nothing. I put it back in its little box and set it on a pile of junk mail. I pretended it wasn't there for a long time, because nothing about my life seemed like it was the way it was supposed to be at the time. I eventually unboxed the damn thing, and set it on a shelf at my desk, where it sometimes even makes me feel a little good to look at it. I did that. I had to trudge through a lot of grief, trauma, and brain fog to earn that damn piece of paper. But by the skin of my teeth, and down to the last possible day to submit my research project, I did it. 

And then I rewarded myself with a puppy. 

I finally got a job, but it's not anything like what I was hoping to do with my degree. The job is remote, so I am saving a ton on clothing, fuel, and food. The pay is insulting, but the fact that pants aren't required almost makes it all worth it. I also enjoy not having to face people every single day, even if I sometimes feel like more forced socialization would probably be good for me. 

I started a knitting/crochet/whatever group at my local library. We meet once a week, most weeks, and make stuff. I have met some fantastic, talented people there. 

I learned how to unclog a sink. I also learned that I had never actually taught my youngest daughter what she can and cannot put down the drain. I guess she and I both learned stuff that day. 

Meanwhile, the world has continued to spin. My heart has continued to beat. Everyone and everything is changing and evolving the way it's supposed to. And I am left to restructure a completely different future than the one I was looking forward to just two years and one day ago. The heavy sense of emptiness left by David's absence is still there, but I am getting a little better at carrying it. I don't imagine you ever truly get over a loss like this, but you learn to build and grow around it. We are meant to keep growing anyway, even when it's hard. Even when we don't want to. Learning about ourselves and the world around us, and the resulting growth, is a part of living. 

If losing David has taught me anything, it's that tomorrow is never promised. If you can find happiness and a sense of purpose in life, chase it, grab it, and hold onto it with everything you've got. Many days, I can even convince myself that this is true. 

I'll get there. 

Grief Toasters and Organizational Clutter

    Nearly ten months before I lost my husband unexpectedly, I lost my mom unexpectedly. I have no idea how I will truly recover from either loss. I am learning you don't exactly *recover* from losing some of the most important people in your life, but instead you just sort of get better at carrying the good memories and the sad feelings with you. Always. 

    Losing my mom was devastating and caught us completely off guard. We knew she had been sick. She'd had a medical emergency months before which resulted in needing multiple blood transfusions. They told her she had a fatty liver. They even charted that they told her she had a fatty liver. They also charted that she, in fact, had advanced cirrhosis of the liver. Nothing about her lifestyle would have ever caused anyone to come to that conclusion. We were informed of her actual condition hours before she died, seven months after they had diagnosed it themselves. We knew she was sick. We kept trying to get her into the doctor, but they kept rescheduling her appointments or doing them via video call. 

    There is a LOT more to that story, but I'm just going to sum it up with this clip:

I'm convinced that IS their technical name.

    So, we finally get her in to see a doctor, the doctor takes one look at her and sends her to the ER. They run a bunch of tests and decide to keep her overnight. We are called the next morning and are informed of her actual condition. And they told us as if we should have already known. And then she is dead by that evening. Just. Like. That. I need to get to my point. I'm starting to feel agitated again. 

    SO...I remember leaving the hospital with David. I remember having to stop at some shitty little gas station mini mart that was still open to try to buy something that my youngest needed. But I don't remember if I slept that night. Or how I slept that night. I was in complete shock. I must have slept at some point, because I remember waking up that next morning and, a few minutes later, remembering that my mom was dead. I felt like I was suddenly bowled over by this wave of confusion, disbelief, and shock with no sense of control or even an understanding of which way was up. David was next to me and the first thing I said to him that morning was, "I need to buy a new toaster." I don't remember exactly why I was so concerned about a toaster at that moment. Sure, our toaster was cheap and old. It seemed to have a direct line of communication with our smoke detector no matter how well we cleaned it. I had probably been bitching about that thing for months already. My best guess is that, with all the things I was feeling, all the control I did not feel like I had, I knew a toaster was something that I could control. While I was faced with a lot of terrible things, I didn't have to live with a shitty toaster anymore. 

    I finally ended up ordering a toaster on Amazon. It had a giant window in it so you could see the bread change color as it toasted. That seemed AMAZING to me. I was excited to get to watch my toast get toasted in real time. I think that excitement lasted for approximately two pieces of toast. And while it's still a pretty good toaster after nearly two years, it takes up way too much counter space and I still think of losing my mom when I look at it. Methinks it might be time to replace my grief toaster. 

    Since I lost David a little over 13 months ago, I have learned a lot about "widow's brain" and some of my temporary limitations. A substantial amount of fog has already lifted and I am already so much better than I was just six months ago. In what I can only assume is an attempt to straighten things out in my head and my life, I have started to buy storage bins and baskets in what I consider to be unreasonable amounts. I mean, it's really only unreasonable to me because I have not been able to use most of them yet. I have plans though. Big plans. I just have to be able to remember them. I should probably also admit that I have just purchased my third planner for this year. Planners can be very helpful in helping keep things straight, but aren't quite so effective if you forget they exist and fail to open them. Ask me how I know that. 

    More and more each day, I am learning that getting one's shit together after losing a spouse is a marathon, not a sprint. Actually, it's more like running a series of marathons with one shoe missing and no clear parameters.

Am I still going the right way? Am I even in the race anymore? Why does everything hurt? And where did all these plastic baskets come from?