Hard Work

When I decided to revive my blog and write about grief, I resolved to put no pressure on myself to make big changes, accomplish anything major, or be exceptionally productive for at least the first year after Dave’s death. I wanted to just process, grieve, feel like I could stay in bed all day if I wanted.

I’d read somewhere that most people expect the grieving process to be over after 2-4 months. That blew my mind – two months in, I was just starting to come out of the state of shock I’d been in. One of the really good books on grieving that I read (which is probably where I saw that statistic, although I’ve seen it in more than one place) said in reality it’s more like three years to really feel like you are back on your feet. And even that isn’t always the case – there is no timeline, of course. This was more of an examination of society’s expectations on a grieving person.

So here I am, almost 10 months later. I feel like I’ve been able to really absorb and reflect on Dave’s death, how his life and death have affected my own life. For a long time I thought I was making no progress; just when I felt like I was getting steadier, I’d have a week where every night (it usually happened as I was getting ready to head up for bed) I would cry and tell him I can’t do this, and he should be here for all these things he was missing. I felt just as shattered as I did in the very early weeks.

So I cried. I talked to him. I wrote in my private journal (to him and to myself), on Facebook, here on my blog. It sucked and I thought my life was always going to feel that way. The loneliness was devastating. Dave and I had spent every minute of 23 years together; we ran a business together, we retired together, we were ALWAYS together. I went from constant 24/7 companionship with someone whose company I never got tired of, to being completely alone all day long. I was in a town far from my family, I really didn’t know anybody local. The two cats were my only social interaction.

It was HARD, harder than I ever admitted to anyone because honestly, there was nothing anybody could do or say to make it better. Yes, I had wonderful memories of our life together. But I didn’t want memories – I wanted my husband and best friend back.

I just got up every day, told him, “Okay hon, here we go, another day to get through.” Fed the cats, found ways to occupy my time, tried to meet people. I used social media a lot to keep from losing my mind with loneliness and it worked – especially Facebook, where my family and friends were so responsive and kind to me. For a long, long time, I didn’t have the mental energy to do much more than post and then like/love the responses to my post. I didn’t interact as much in the comments as I normally would. But if I was feeling like I could, I tried to because I knew I needed to come back to myself and that was a small start.

(As a side note, I’m probably going to start posting some of the FB posts here, with a “From Facebook” note in the beginning. I feel like I want them here as well, as part of the grieving process I’m documenting, but I don’t want my Facebook friends to feel like they have to read a duplicate if they don’t want to. So I won’t share the links on my FB page, but you should get a notice about the posts if you’ve subscribed to my blog or you read on a feed reader.)

As time went on I started wondering if people thought I talked about Dave too much on Facebook. Was I wallowing? Usually I would see a memory pop up and then share it and talk a little about it. But I decided I needed to also start talking about my life now, not just my life then.

Summer gave me more of a chance to get out and talk to people. It sounds so minor, but I’d walk the neighborhood and usually stop and chat with at least one person while I was out. I’d stop in a store or whatever and talk to somebody there. For someone who used to be really, really shy, this was more hard work, but I knew it was important for my mental health. I had to really make an effort not to isolate myself. I made myself get out and around people at least once a week, if not more.

A view from a recent walk in town

So here’s a little story. Last Thursday, my social plans were to go to a farm market that Dave and I used to frequent, and then to walk down after dinner and listen to some music in the park. (My town has this every Thursday evening in the summer, a different band/genre each time.) The band was doing covers of 80s/90s music and I figured I’d like that music pretty well.

I went to the farm market, and spent a lot of time talking to the woman who owns the farm. She was talking to herself at one point and then apologized to me for it, and I told her I talk to myself ALL the time. Well, I talk to Dave, really. Then she asked if I had a picture of Dave so she could remember him – and after she saw the photo, she looked stricken and said that oh yes, she remembered him, and she was so sorry. We talked about her mom, who died recently, and what an honor it was to be present with a loved one when they make that transition. It was just a really wonderful, heartfelt conversation.

As I was leaving, I realized I was kind of blocked in. There was a road crew paving the road I needed to take, and it was the only way out of the parking lot. So I walked right up to the guys working, told them I needed to turn right (because I didn’t know any other way home!) and they were so cool. They told me to go to the other driveway, they held traffic for me, and I was able to pull out just before where they were spreading asphalt. I mean, you have to understand – I would have agonized over this in the past. I would’ve been too shy to talk and ask questions. On that day, I didn’t even hesitate. It was fun, even!

Then after dinner I walked down to the park. Chatted with the people I decided to sit next to. Enjoyed the band tremendously. Chatted with more people as I left and walked home.

I got home that night and I’m not joking, I felt like a different person. I’d done all these things alone, had a really social day that didn’t feel exhausting or scary. I truly enjoyed myself. I didn’t once think how sad it was that I had to do this stuff by myself. I’d chosen activities I wanted to do, I did them, and I had fun.

In bed that night I thought about how truly awful those first months were; not just because I was grieving, my life had been completely turned upside down, I was alone and terrified, but because scary stuff kept happening that I had to deal with right after my husband died. My car tire kept going flat, the battery died and the car wouldn’t start, I had problems with my internet, couldn’t figure out how to get the whole-house humidifier to work when it got cold. I had to get used to driving in snow and on ice, when I hadn’t driven a car in over seven years because Dave did all the driving. It was a LOT.

I think all that stuff contributed to the fear I went through in winter, when I didn’t want to leave the house, drive or do anything. I was terrified of getting in an accident and being by myself when it happened. I’m not exaggerating when I say I thought I was going to be scared forever; I just thought that was my life from now on.

So all of that quiet time, which I’ve been lucky to have, believe me I know, has been working under the surface. I don’t think I’ll be “done” grieving or going through this process in a year; that’s only a couple months away. But I can see how I’m changing as a person, in small, meaningful ways.

It’s hard work. It’s scary. It’s what I need to do.