Unwanted Blank Canvas

BUSY!

Busy busy busy.

The school year mercifully began and September has sped by. F23, as I lovingly refer to the fall semester, relieved me of the summer slowness that made me question my purpose and unleashed the you-asked-for-it busyness of the academic year that now threatens my sanity.

Here it is, Friday night. Rain relentlessly drums down. There is no sports practice to facilitate after all. There is no reason to head out. For me that is, because my children are out. One is at a friend's home and the other has taken the car *by himself* to a high school football game. An unfamiliar, unsettled silence has settled on my home and is right up in my face.

The frenetic buzz of do, check, double check, create, teach, communicate, achieve has given way to... I don't know how to finish the sentence. What is left? What is there for me in the silence when I am finished doing? That is THE question. Nobody needs me.

The world keeps turning without me doing anything "productive" or anybody knowing what I am doing at all.

I can do whatever I want.

What do I want?

Do not ask me that. Ask me anything but that. Ask me instead about the abundent, obvious shoulds. I should clean. I should exercise. I should try to find a partner. I should make travel plans for the holidays. I should do the reading for the class I paid to take. I should grade the quizzes I gave to my students today. I should prepare the remarks for the new students in my program that I am scheduled to deliver tomorrow to them and *their parents*. I should do something. (Do-oooooo Something!)

But... What do I want?

That's an entirely different question. It's not that I do not know that answer. Oh, I do. It's so easy, so automatic, it's as much a no-brainer as the unconscious, do-it-while-asleep scratching of poison ivy that I experienced this summer. The answer is not socially acceptable, or it is not to most normal living people. That is why I don't pour my guts out here anymore (not that anyone reads). What I have to say - truly honestly baring my soul no lies reveal - doesn't engender understanding. It elicits silence. Concern. Suggestions of seeing a therapist for "prolonged grief." Pity. I hate all of that; it makes me furious. But I still want you to know because I am hurting so badly and have no escape valve. I want you to know because it could have been you and if it was you, then you'd understand I'm not a freak. 

There is only one true thing I want and it's this. It is STILL this. It is ONLY this.

I want him to come back.

If he came back, everything would be okay again. I would not be uneasy, I would not doubt my decisions, I would not hate myself, I would not be overwhelmed, I would not be paralyzed, I would not be disgusted by the mess around me. If he came back, I would not be living this life anymore. If he came back, I would not be the me that I am stuck in now. If he came back, I would only be purely happy to be in his presence. I could relax. I could stop thinking and over-thinking. I would feel loved and seen and heard and be at the top of his list. If he came back, I would not be alone. I would finally be home again if he came back.

On this solitary night when I could do anything I wanted, I choose to put into words what I truly want. The tears pour down my face and I choke on the sobs because what I want is just not possible. The only thing I want is literally impossible.

He is not coming back.

The busy and commitments and exhaustion veil that, they obscure the void. They are just an elaborate defense mechanism even while I tell myself some of the activity is aimed at exploring a next chapter. If I'm busy, I am okay. Brain otherwise occupied. But when distraction is stripped away, like on this quiet Friday night, I hurt.

I want him. I want to share all of this mess with him because it never felt like a mess when we were together. And yet he is no longer. I don't know where that leaves me... I struggle with seeing my own value. There is much work to be done. Am I doing it in the busy? Or, am I avoiding it?

What am I supposed to do?

That is the wrong question. My brain doesn't understand that there is no supposed to. It's more like I'm a painter with a fresh, unsullied canvas and I get to lay down the colors, but I was never an artist in the before life and I don't want the opportunity now. The blank expanse of the surface is overwhelming and I'm not skilled or energetic enough to create a quality picture at 46.

I don't know where to start starting over. I don't know how to want anything other than him. He is hardwired into my being and he is gone. It makes no sense.

For Me on Mother's Day

Let me dismiss perfect mom,

that one who always knows what to do and does it flawlessly. 

Let me banish meticulous housekeeper, organizational master, and always-there-parent.

 

Let me release the one who perpetually has it together and that other one who never needs help.

 

Let me banish the mom I would have been,

the mom I could have been,

the mom I should have been.

 

Let me give up on perfect mom and all of her friends.

Let me know, deep in my bones, that they are just mythical ideas that haunt me.

 

Instead, let me embrace the parent I am.

 

Let me believe in the one that others see:

the brave one with the stiff upper lip;

the one who made lemonade from lemons;

the “you’re so strong” one and her capable twin “I don’t know how you do it.”

 

Let me be proud of the mom I am:

the one who doesn’t have all the answers but is always up for learning;

the one who needs so very much help but knows there is strength in the reaching out for it;

the one who makes mistakes but asks for forgiveness;

the one who will talk about the embarrassing things, the hard things, the seemingly unspeakable things;

the tireless one who accepts chaos to say yes to the good stuff;

the tired one who needs to say no sometimes;

the mom who will advocate - sometimes strongly, sometimes quietly – relentlessly for her kids;

the one who suffered an enormous loss but never gave up,

the mom who still grieves and always goes on.

 

Let me give me, this very mom, the grace I want my children to give themselves,

 

and

 

let me proclaim - loudly, emphatically - that perfect mom never existed in the first place.

 

 

 

Alone

Valentine's Day literally dawned with the realization that the dog has officially dumped me.

Yes, my loyal companion, my shadow, no longer sleeps in my bed. Her human sister and best playmate astutely set up the dog bed on the floor next to her bed. Voila, Phoenix has decided that close is close enough and her dog bed is perfect, thank you very much. Everyone is sleeping better. This is good because I am too old to contort myself around a sleeping, bed-hogging dependent.

And yet...

I miss snuggling that compact, muscular crescent in the middle of the night. I miss running my hand over her velvety ears when I cannot sleep. I even miss letting her out to howl in the wee hours because she always rewarded me with aggressive affection manifested through assertive nudges of my arm for attention as she settled back down to sleep, curling tightly into my side. That dog has single handedly (pawedly?) saved me from despair by demanding attention, learning, and love, and now she is O-V-E-R it. I miss her companionship. 

So my first thought on Valentine's Day, an inconvenient hour before my alarm went off, was that now even the dog has dumped me. This is a new low.

My second thought was of Chris sleeping next to me. I spent a while remembering the shape his dear form took, the way he loved to be warm and wore a sweatshirt or pullover fleece to bed in the winter. He is imprinted on my memory, so close I could just roll slightly to my right and rest my head on his shoulder, but so gone I would wrench my aching aging neck from not landing on his alive body.

Instead of drifting off to sleep for a precious stretch, I more solidly joined the world of the living. I looked over at his side of the bed - flat as usual- that half as empty as my core, and my third observation clanged through the quiet of my room.

I am utterly alone.

It isn't the stupid holiday or the lack of any grand gesture; it's the everyday nothingness where there once was comfort, understanding, joy, mutual making-it-through-the-day-ness. It's not being at the top of anyone's list. It's not being able to share the ups and downs. It's being invisible in this world. It's having experienced how wonderful it is to be with the exact right person and knowing that kind of fulfillment is over for you. 

Alone on Valentine's Day.

Alone every single day. 

Every. Single. Day.

Alone.

A Family, Again

The clocks changed not long ago and, right on schedule, so did the weather. It's undeniably late fall now, with winter bearing down. Dusk starts to settle in before 4:00 along with a bitter chill in the air, both signaling the dark time of the year. It's here.

For me, it begins at Halloween. The light side of the holiday with sugary sweets and dress-up tomfoolery doesn't resonate anymore; the sinister side of spiders, skeletons, and spooky graveyards does. I remember four years ago, walking with Chris behind the kids with dread of what was to come sucking the words from our mouths as we walked in silence. Inevitability still suffocates all else now, like it did then.

Days pass and his birthday comes in mid-November. I remember how we went out to celebrate that last time as a family. It was bitterly cold. I parked the car and we all hurried to the restaurant door, Chris could still hustle on that night. I made us take a picture before going in. One of our last, if not the last. 

It hurts to remember. I can hardly look at that photo.

I cannot forget. I can't tear my eyes away from his steroid-swollen face and our baby-faced children, the love so obvious it breaks your heart, or at least mine.

What to do on his birthday? Covid robbed us of most normal commemorative activities such that we do not have a routine these four years on. Even if we wanted to eat at that favorite place, it closed a few years ago...

Since Chris died, I have tried to support his/our favorite charities at a comparable level to when he managed such things. Money is one thing, but doing something with your own hands feels better, yet my hands have been tied with virus restrictions for a couple of years. Finally - finally!- when I received an email about a family volunteer day at Cradles to Crayons in November, I knew it was the perfect thing to do for Chris's birthday. 

We masked up and went. The warehouse had changed locations since our last volunteer experience as a family of four. Yet another reminder that things change...

Still, the set-up was the same. The same positive atmosphere, the same focus on the dignity of the recipients. The same backdrop with oversized crayons for pictures, the same bleachers for the "talk" before the work session.

Instantly, we were transported back. The dates are lost now - I think we volunteered twice as a family of four - but the details don't matter, we were back in that mode.

We were a family, again. 

We were assigned to the book sorting station, something new. I silently gave thanks for a new experience as we busied ourselves by dipping into the cargo bins of donated books, discarding items that were not able to be donated through C2C, cleaning those that were, and passing them on to the packaging crew who made bundles for different age groups.

The bins were emptied and the appealing to-be-gifted package pile grew. Though I felt my children begin to grow tired and bored from the tedium, I also sensed their determination to see this through and not complain. They understood that this was important for its own purpose, and because Dad believed in this cause. I was proud of them for sticking with it as our fingers grew tacky with grime from the donated books.

It felt so good. 

It felt like Chris was with us.

It felt like we were a real family again.

Ooof, that is a variant of something I have said a few times recently to very close friends. The legitimacy of my family is now compromised in my mind. Something is always missing, this is always lacking compared to the past. Somehow I backed myself into a position of feeling like we do not get to be considered a real family since we are without two parents. 

I need to work on that because, as I have written ad nauseum, he is not coming back.

Four years on, we are a different family. Smaller. Quieter, with fewer laughs, but perhaps a greater than typical appreciation for what really matters.

I have to fight myself to remember that this family of three is not an inferior charicture of a family, but the real thing. It is reduced in size, but not diminished in value or love.   

We are still a family.

But, on our Cradles to Crayons volunteer day, we were that family, again. For a fleeting two hours, he was with us in that warehouse.

But today and every day that comes next, we are this family, the one who holds Chris close and takes steps into the great unknown channeling his spirit and encouragement but making it without him.

He would be proud of us, just as we are proud of him. This I know to be true deep in my bones. 

Coiled Like a Spring

The days are busy. So, so busy. One day it was summer and now the morning darkness and chilly air tells me winter is closing in. What happened...

On the one hand, I'm better when I'm busy. Distraction takes the edge off and so I'm intensely grateful for the buzz-buzz-buzz of the academic year. Importantly, I feel like *I* have a purpose in the world when I'm immersed in my profession. In the classroom, I am uniquely me, trying my hardest to help others on their paths. Each day I get to share my appreciation for the beauty of data and logic, I dust off my proverbial pom-poms and become a cheerleader of young people who are distracted, disillusioned, and depressed. I make fun of myself to see them smile and I see them feel proud when they participate and are correct. When teaching, I am not worrying about my children or ruminating on my husband's fate, nor wondering if the best of life is already behind me and what the hell is the point anymore anyway. No, when teaching I am my authentic self. Just maybe the effort I put in could make some small difference to someone. This is good.

But, holy smokes, it is hectic. I am not sleeping enough or eating well enough. Multi-multi-multi-tasking is a challenge that I face day after day. I set alarms on my phone to remember zoom meetings with students, phone calls with brain tumor friends, bills, library books needing return, cooking plans. No stretch of time is too short to get something done, no location too odd to borrow wifi from. Still, I'm merely mortal even though I frequently deny my limits. The wax will be warming, nay, outright melting, and even though I feel it dripping off my wings, I fly closer to the sun instead of sensibly dropping altitude. The inevitable plummet is as painful as it is predictable.

Much has happened that is not solely my experience and therefore not fit to share, and so I have felt muted for months. I wonder if I would have stopped sharing no matter the circumstances. As time goes on, the world definitely doesn't understand that you don't stop missing an important person after a year or two or three goes by. It's not "complicated" or "prolonged" grief if you cry sometimes or express longing, it's the price you pay for deep connection. There is no room for nuance in this society, and now there's a mental health diagnosis for people who aren't "over" their loss after one short year. The armchair therapists are everywhere and quick to reference something they heard on public radio. 

My experience is mine. I am more protective now because I do feel judged. I sense that I am seen as unhealthy or unworthy since I am still single.

I don't care, f off world.

My particular suburban, utopian community has absolutely no idea what having a young dead husband is like. My experience is uniquely mine, my Chris still more precious than anything even though he is not alive. I don't choose to share as freely because people understand less and less what we had, how special he was, the emptiness of a life without him, and the ridiculous challenge of raising children alone. Yet, the tension of wanting to be seen as "normal" and a "valuable" or "high-quality" person is always there just under the surface, tightly coiled like a spring.

I guess I do care. A lot...

The problem is that I do not have a way to release the energy trapped in that spring. There is distraction, but that is not an outlet; it is only a disguise. Instead, I carry that tension day in and out, hour by hour, actively or subconsciously working to suppress it. Every now and then the thought of a heart attack or stroke crosses my mind, for how long can I do this? I worry that I will drop dead from stress and struggle, and then what would become of our children...

Try as I might, I cannot find a way to let it all simply rest.

Chris was my delight, my refuge, my peace, and he treasured me. With him, I needed nothing else to be happy; just spending a few simple minutes together was my idea of perfection. Now, this world does not hold real respite for me. He was my home, my delight, my solace, my one, and he is gone. 

I am tough as nails, I am strong as steel, I am incredibly capable, and I care a lot for others. I am a high quality single person. I know all of these things to be true. But, I am not peaceful without him. I do not know how to be truly, deeply happy without him.

That spring is coiled oh so tightly.

I Went to the Mat

There are dark days. I doubt myself, second-guess decisions, believe everyone would be better at managing the things that were dealt specifically to me. There are so many different feelings now that time has passed and nobody understands; the suffering is incredibly lonely.

But sometimes, when the light is perfectly right as the day is drawing to a close, I know that I did my best. Even though I stumble, I continue to do my best – for our children, for me, and I remember that I did for you, too.

I went to the mat for you.

I raised my voice and demanded attention.

I sought the best help that I could find when I realized it was all on me, no longer in your hands but completely in mine.

In the moments it mattered most, I was decisive when all eyes were on me to make the call.

I never gave up.

Even when I was tired and needed to step out, to attend to the other people who need me.

Even when I sought mental escape.

Because I did nearly break and need a minute, from time to time.

Of course I did. Because I am just one person, one human being, I needed to breathe for a minute.

I still went to the mat for you, for the best ending you could experience, for the least trauma for all of us.

I knew then that my best was not going to result in you being able to stay one minute longer than biology would allow. I know now that the pain of separation seeks blame, any deflection from a direct hit, so hating myself for everything is normal. I can’t blame myself for what happened, and I really don’t. In the same way, I’m working hard to not blame myself for the now. It simply is.

I am doing my best.

I am going to the mat for our children, for me. So we might be able to fully live with moments of joy.

Please. Help me believe these words.

 

 

Trauma

 What is trauma? What differentiates a traumatic experience from a difficult one?

One might experience something difficult as being caught in a very bad storm, frightened by nearby lightning and soaked to the skin. After darting into a shelter to wait it out, one might feel relief while toweling off the water. That was hard and unfortunate, but now it’s over. One might even learn important lessons from a difficult experience that positively influence future choices. But still, the damage can be repaired.

Unlike a difficult experience, trauma cannot be wiped away cleanly. Instead, trauma permeates the skin, steeps into bones, dissolves in blood and circulates through all the vessels, big and small, dissipating relentlessly into every last nook and mysterious cranny of the body. Trauma settles into all of the dark and mysterious hiding places: it swells to fill the pockets of joints, adheres to the ropey surface of ligaments, intricately weaves into the delicate spiderweb of nerve filaments. Trauma lies in wait, always at the ready to rush back to the bloodstream and flood the brain.

At the slightest trigger, the legacy of trauma is activated. Going far beyond memory, trauma unleashes an assault on the senses:

An unstable wobble in the stomach, the acrid taste of bile rising in the back of the throat, the heart racing at breakneck speed with the thudding of impending doom.

Your partner seizing in car, seizing again and again in the familiar red chair. The intensity as he silently held you in his gaze for the last time.

The sounds. The many, many sounds. Sirens, code announcements over a loudspeaker, urgent phone calls with dire news and split-second decisions required, grunts of human suffering and cries of anguish.

Trauma is a full-body, repetitive experience.

-----

I didn’t realize that I was traumatized for a long time. However, my dread of phone calls, fear of mail from health insurance companies and the government, and the indescribable dread that the other shoe is juuuust about to drop is not characteristic of the typical 40-something person.

It’s watching TV and hearing the sound of an IV alarm in the background of the show, then being right back in the ER, devoid of the happy ending that the program will inevitably feature.

Yes, the endless alarms of the hospital characterize trauma for me. The rhythmic, annoying beep-beep that might simply mean an IV drip has completed or a sensor was disconnected, or more sinisterly indicate depressed or elevated vital signs. The sound is dissonant, unpleasant, distressing; like someone is leaning on three adjacent keys of a synthesizer over and over and over. Two short off-key signals, then a longer pause.

Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     

 

The patient is powerless to silence the alarm. The family cannot stop it, either. It might be nothing, but it just as well could mean the end has come.

Enh-enh.     Dan-ger.     Enh-enh.      End-time.     Enh-enh.     

It is impossible to relax or sleep in a hospital when that alarm is constantly going off.

Enh-enh.     Dan-ger.     Enh-enh.      End-time.     Enh-enh.     

Still, these years later, it wakes me up from a dead sleep sometimes.

Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      

The alarm insists that bad things happened, are happening, will continue to happen.

 

Enh-enh.     Enh-enh…

 

Everyone I love has died or will die.

 

End-times.         End-times.         End-times.         End-times.         End-times.

---

This is trauma.